


Get The Hell On With It

by Pipergirl17



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-04-03 23:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14007333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pipergirl17/pseuds/Pipergirl17
Summary: After she cares for him during his recovery, Sherlock develops a desire to pursue Molly Hooper romantically. With a little help from his friends, and a lot of patience from Molly, this story follows the path he takes. Romance, humour and a few bittersweet moments to follow. Takes place after Season 4, episode 2.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: T to M.
> 
> Prologue Synopsis: Setting the scene for a longer story, this prologue gives us a glimpse into Molly Hooper's shift as she watches over a recovering Sherlock Holmes. What happens in the following six hours will change the nature of their relationship as Sherlock realizes he wants to pursue a 'romantic entanglement' with his favourite pathologist. Prologue can be read as a one-off and is rated T. The following chapters will be rated M for adult situations and strong language.
> 
> A/N: This story takes place at the end of Season 4, episode 2 with one significant change - Sherlock does not receive a text from Irene, and it's not revealed to be his birthday. And, of course, a great big thanks to Cordelia Rose for her awesome beta skills on this prologue - she has a magical way with words!
> 
> Disclaimer: As much as I'd like all these lovely characters to belong to me, alas it isn't so. I am making no profit other than the joy of sharing this story.

Once upon a time, Molly Hooper would have been over the moon at the prospect of spending one-on-one time with Sherlock Holmes in his flat. It had, after all, been the setting for many of her fantasies: she'd been caught in the rain and found shelter in his home (and his arms); they were working on a project side-by-side in his kitchen; he was sick and she needed to care for him; and, her favourite, they were madly in love and living together.

But reality had a cruel way of quashing fantasies and she found that, as the car she was riding in approached Baker Street, 'he was sick and she needed to care for him' was the farthest thing from a romantic fantasy - in this case, at least.  


She, John, Greg and Mrs. Hudson had agreed to split their available time to watch over the recovering detective and, for the most part, the first week had gone smoothly. He'd spent much of that time in and out of consciousness, convalescing and fighting the aftereffects of all the drugs he'd taken.  


When he was finally up and about, Sherlock had been irascible. "He gets like this when he's bored," John had pointed out as he'd dropped Rosie off with Molly the previous Saturday morning before heading off to work. "Just watch that he doesn't have a gun handy, though."  


Her last shift with the detective, that past Tuesday, had been six of the most difficult hours of her entire life. Three days had passed since then but it hadn't been long enough to work past the anxiety and despair she'd felt. Sherlock had refused to even speak to her for the first two hours, skillfully ignoring her presence like a petulant child. Molly had eventually coaxed him into a game of Scrabble which had gone well until she'd won; he'd toppled the board over in a fit of pique, sending letter tiles flying everywhere. After that, he'd cut her down with verbal abuse, reducing her to tears before locking himself in his room.  


After a night like that the old Molly Hooper would have given up - Greg had even tried to talk her out of returning after seeing how miserable she was - but the new Molly Hooper had done her homework, resolute that the following shift would go better. She had a cooler with dinner, a bag of goodies from her local bakery and an extra special surprise. And, now that she knew what to expect, she wore a thicker skin, too.  


When the car pulled up to the curb in front of 221B Baker Street, she thanked the driver - Mycroft's contribution had been to provide everyone with travel arrangements - and got out, pushing aside the urge to tell him to keep driving. She turned and faced the door with a great deal of trepidation still, but straightened her spine and stood tall. "Molly Hooper," she muttered to herself, "you are going to go in there and show him that he cannot bully you around."  


She opened the door and let herself in, surprised to catch John on his own way out. John _never_ stayed to the end of his shift; he always left early. And by the look of him, she thought she understood why: he looked like she'd felt on Tuesday. His eyes were rimmed red but he managed a weak smile. "Molly," he greeted, nodding at her.  


"Hello John," she answered. She looked up the stairs and back at him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"  


"Actually, yeah." He seemed surprised at his own answer, and his smile became a little less forced and a little more genuine. "I _am_ going to be alright, thanks. You have a nice evening, Molly."  


Curious, Molly watched him leave and shut the door behind him. Bathed in the dreariness of the foyer, she turned around and took a deep breath, climbing the stairs that would lead her to Sherlock Holmes.  


Once upstairs she found the man in question standing at the window watching John leave, a weary look on his face. He'd changed his clothes since Monday - _small miracles_ , she thought - but was still wearing his dressing gown. His shoulders were slumped as if he were carrying a great weight and she supposed he was, in a sense, with everything that had transpired in the past few weeks.  


Sherlock's arrogance had grown to ridiculous proportions since he'd gotten away with Magnussen's murder - yes, she'd been let in on the truth of what had really taken place, as unbelievable as it was - but the shock of Mary's sacrifice had knocked him down a few pegs. Her death had left behind a widower and a motherless child, not to mention countless close friends, all in exchange for his life. How does a man live with that debt?  


When it became obvious he wasn't going to acknowledge her arrival, Molly sighed and went to the kitchen, busying herself with taking food out of her cooler. She placed a pot of soup on the stovetop, turning the heat on. After hearing John's stories about Sherlock storing body parts in the cookware, there was no way in hell she was going to use any pots or pans from 221B Baker Street.  


Keeping an eye on the simmering soup Molly pulled two mugs from the cupboard, washing them thoroughly. When it was warm enough she filled one of the cups and walked out to the living room.  


Sherlock had returned to his usual chair, still staring ahead sullenly. "I've already told you," he said, looking up at her defiantly, his gaze sharp despite his ill health. "I'm not eating anything."  


"You don't _eat_ this soup - you drink it. It's outside your rules therefore it should be admissible," she parried coolly, still holding the mug out.  


He narrowed his eyes at her but then, to her great surprise, his face broke into a wide grin. "Well done, Molly. I knew you had it in you - you've always been smarter than you let on."  


He accepted the proffered mug and took a sip, closing his eyes and humming in pleasure. "This is delicious," he complimented before taking a second sip. "What's in it?"  


In shock from his about face, Molly hesitantly answered. "Um, cauliflower, carrot, lentils, vegetable broth - not the sodium reduced one, because I know you don't like it - coconut milk and curry paste." She watched him continue to take measured sips. "Someone shared the recipe on Facebook and it reminded me of that dish you always order when we go to Trishna. I just puréed it with a hand blender so you could drink it."  


"A wise gamble," he conceded as he tipped his mug, draining the last drops. He peered around her into the kitchen, one eyebrow raised. "You wouldn't have more, would you?"  


Molly smiled; this Sherlock was infinitely more enjoyable than the last one she'd been confronted with. "Only if you join me at the table. I've had a long day at work and would rather not have to eat off my lap whilst sitting in an armchair."  


"Agreed." He stood up, a brief flash of pain crossing his face. "Remind me to never piss John off ever again, will you?"  


There wasn't anything Molly could say in reply. John had indeed beat him brutally and it was going to take the detective a long time to heal - physically, that was. It would take longer for both men to heal emotionally.  


She took his mug back into the kitchen and grabbed the second one, filling both with the now steaming soup before placing them on the table. She sat in the chair next to him and opened the paper bag, reaching inside and pulling out a still-warm roll.  


His gaze was fixated on the bread, watching as she ripped a piece off and dipped it in her soup before popping it in her mouth. She stared at him, one eyebrow raised.  


"Are those fresh?" he asked, leaning forward and inhaling deeply.  


"Yes," she replied innocently, breaking off another piece. "I bought them on my way here. They came straight out of the oven. Pity you aren't eating anything, though," she added. "Unless you've changed your mind."  


"Damn you," he muttered, reaching for the bag. "You know baked goods are my weakness."  


"Yes, I do. And it's going to do you a world of good to have some solid food in your stomach."  


She had to stop him after the third roll, taking the bag away and rolling it up. "You're going to make yourself sick - you can't go from one extreme to the other."  


Ignoring his protests - after spending days looking after a five month-old, she'd become a pro at refusing whiny requests - she stood up and carried the bag to the counter. He'd have to actually move from his chair if he wanted more, and the chances of that were slim. Just then, something on the living room floor caught her eye. She walked over to pick it up, realising it was one of the tiles from their failed Scrabble game.  


She quickly pocketed the game piece, trying to push aside the lead that settled in the pit of her stomach at the memory of how it got there. _That was Tuesday_ , she told herself, _not tonight - things are different tonight_. When she turned back towards the kitchen, Sherlock was watching her steadily. "I'm sorry," he said. "My behaviour on Tuesday was inexcusable."  


Despite agreeing with him Molly shook her head, trying to avoid an uncomfortable moment. "Look, Sherlock, you were tired and sick, and it doesn't matter anymore."  


"It _does_ matter," he insisted vehemently. Standing up with a wince, he walked over to where she'd stopped. "You are one of the few friends I have, Molly. Here you are, taking time out of your life to help me and I treated you like shit. I was angry at myself and took it out on you. There's no excuse for that."  


She looked at him: unshaven, weary, bruised, the hyphema in his left eye making him appear even more haggard. He seemed so vulnerable, so _human_. "Thank you," she said, reaching out and wrapping her arms around his waist. He surprised her by hugging her back, tentatively at first, but then with more confidence.  


It felt so _right_ , being in the circle of his arms. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the cadence of his heartbeat. Her chest constricted when she thought of how close it had all been; had John been slower in acting, had he been a few minutes later in breaking through that door, Sherlock's heart would have been silenced. For real this time. No ruse, no switching bodies, no knowledge that he'd someday pop back in their lives.  


He placed a kiss on the top of her head and pulled back, letting his hands slowly slide from her back. "I'm not going anywhere," he reassured her.  


"I know. It was just so close, this time." Molly took a shaky breath and wiped at her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm being silly."  


"Nonsense," he replied, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "You're not being silly. Imagine how boring the world would be without Sherlock Holmes."  


Molly laughed. "Yes, it certainly would be."  


She collected the dinner dishes, her mind drifting to Sherlock's pleasant disposition. She was amazed at how easily the puzzle pieces fell into place as she pondered the possible reasons for his mood. _I wonder if this is how it feels for him when he's solving cases_.  


"I'm glad you and John finally talked things through," she casually tossed out as she waited for the sink to fill with hot water. Her remark was met with silence, suggesting she was on the right track.  


She jumped when the tea towel slipped from her shoulder. Even sick, Sherlock could be as stealthy as he wanted to be. "That's a very presumptuous observation," he commented, face arranged into a neutral mask he so often displayed.  


_I like huggy, friendly, Sherlock better_ , she mused before ploughing ahead nervously. It was time for the new Molly to take the reins. "It's not presumptuous," she argued carefully. "I met John on the way in. He'd been crying, but he was more positive than he's been since... ." She still couldn't say it. Couldn't push the words out. When he didn't press, his gaze still piercing her, she continued. "Since before, which points to a cathartic moment. And you're in a far better mood than before - you're acting as though a weight has been lifted from you: you're holding yourself straighter; your face is more open; you're actually being pleasant. I might not be the world's only consulting detective, but I _am_ able to see what's clearly before me."  


Sherlock shifted his attention from the mug he was drying to her. "Molly Hooper," he said, impressed. "That was remarkably perceptive of you. That's twice now you've surprised me tonight." He placed the dry mug back on the counter, staring at it. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that John and I have talked things through - the past few weeks have caused perhaps irreparable damage to our friendship, I'm afraid - but we did talk. And that's something, isn't it?" He turned to her, looking for confirmation that his relationship with John was still salvageable, his blue eyes practically begging her to tell him he was right, to give him hope. She wasn't used to his uncertainty.  


Molly finished scrubbing the last vestiges of soup from the pot, placed it on the drying rack and pulled the stopper from the sink. She worked slowly and methodically, giving Sherlock the impression she was pondering his question when in truth she didn't need to consider it at all. The answer - to anyone other than Sherlock Holmes - was simple. And as much as he understood human nature, it was from the perspective of an outside observer; he may as well have been Jane Goodall studying chimpanzees for all the good keeping his distance from humanity had done him.  


She finally broke her silence after folding and setting aside the dish cloth. "What you and John have goes beyond a mere friendship, Sherlock. There are rock solid marriages that would crumble under less stress than what you two have been through. Have patience, and have faith in John - he's hurting so much right now, but he'll heal and come around. Anyone who was still your friend after being called urgently across town because you couldn't find the sugar bowl will be your friend forever, and no matter what."  


The detective smiled wistfully. "Told you about that, did he?"  


"A week after Rosie's birth? Even _you_ should know better, Sherlock."  


"I _did_ know better," he countered. "I knew he'd be itching to get out of the house but wouldn't do it out of guilt. I simply… facilitated an escape for him."  


Molly simply stared at him, her mouth open in shock.  


"Oh, he didn't tell you that he stayed for two cups of tea, did he?" More to himself, he mumbled, "No, of course he wouldn't have. It would take away from his woe-is-me story."  


"So!" he exclaimed suddenly, changing the focus of the conversation. "Now that cleaning up is out of the way, what do you have planned to keep me occupied tonight? Not board games, I'm certain - not after Tuesday's fiasco. Charades, perhaps? Ooh! Maybe some crafts?"  


Molly stared at him evenly, his sarcasm washing over her. "Perhaps if you stopped acting like a child, we'd stop treating you like one."  


"Now you sound like Mycroft," he pouted, wrapping his gown around himself dramatically and dropping into his chair.  


_Let's see his reaction to this_ , she mused, pulling out her ace-in-the-sleeve.  


"A movie. But you won't find out what it is until you help me find your telly and set it up so we can watch from the sofa."  


He looked up sharply at her, his interest clearly piqued. "A movie? It isn't one of those horrid sentimental girly films, is it?" he asked, making a face.  


"No, it isn't. I left all of my sentimental girly films at home," she replied, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "You won't find out until we've found the telly though."  


He didn't move. He simply sat still, watching her move around the flat in search of their television. She knew they had one; John had mentioned it a number of times in his recounting of various tales.  


"Oh no," he groaned. "It's an artsy flick, isn't it? Some pretentious drivel involving more characters than you can keep track of, all of whom are depressed and/or eccentric?"  


"What? No!" she replied irritably, peeking under a stack of newspapers. "It's not an artsy flick. If you don't tell me where your telly is, so help me I will log onto iTunes and buy the girliest, artsiest film they have and watch it as loudly as possible so you can't hide from it."  


"It's in the bathroom," he acquiesced.  


Molly stopped dead in her tracks, straightened up and turned to stare at him. "Why is your television in the bathroom?"  


"There was a David Attenborough documentary on bees," he replied, defensive. "I didn't want to miss any of it while I…"  


Molly's hand shot up, palm out. "Please do _not_ finish that sentence!"  


"... took a bath. What did you think I was going to say?"  


"Honestly? With you, I'm never sure." Molly sighed, nearly tripping as she stepped over a stack of books. She looked down the hall towards the bathroom and frowned. "How did you manage to carry your telly all the way to the bathroom?"  


"It's on a rolling cart," he admitted. "I don't need a hernia in addition to everything else."  


"Good. At least you have _some _common sense. Would you mind fetching it?" she asked. "I'll go get the movie. I still need to take it out of its packaging." Relieved when he didn't argue and did as she'd asked, Molly retrieved the DVD case from her bag and unwrapped it. She glanced at the cover, hoping that Mycroft hadn't been pulling her leg when he'd told her it would be greatly appreciated by his brother. This really didn't seem to be something the genius consulting detective would watch willingly.__  


She heard the squeak of the cart as it was pushed into the living room and followed Sherlock, hiding the movie behind her back. When he'd finished hooking everything up he stood and looked at her expectantly. "It's all yours," he announced, waving with a flourish at the television.  


"Thank you. Now go sit on the sofa and close your eyes," she instructed. "I want this to be a surprise." _A good one, I hope_ , she thought to herself, more nervous by the second. Knowing Mycroft, Sherlock was scarred by the movie as a child and she would now become an unwitting pawn in their never-ending sibling feud.  


Sherlock eyed her suspiciously but went and sat down anyway, occupying the far side of the sofa. Molly inserted the DVD into the player, twisting oddly to keep the case hidden - she honestly didn't trust him not to peek - and jogged over to join him.  


She bit her lower lip, her focus entirely on Sherlock, and watched his reaction as The Goonies appeared on screen. His eyes widened, his lips parted in shock, and Molly held her breath. Just as she was about to apologise, he let out a bark of laughter.  


"Christ," he half-whispered, "how did you know?" He stared at her, a look of wonder on his face; with the gravity of the past few weeks temporarily lifted, he looked ten years younger.  


"Mycroft," she admitted, relief flooding through her. "I did a little nosing around of my own. He suggested it so quickly I was afraid there had to be a catch, like he'd terrorized you with it or something."  


"No," he answered, his gaze returning to the screen. "No subterfuge on behalf of my brother this time. He's actually the one who took me to see it in the theatre. I'd started having nightmares about our old dog Redbeard - he'd disappeared three years before, when I was six - and I suppose he wanted to distract me."  


Molly settled in at the other end of the couch, her feet tucked in under her. "That was awfully nice of him," she commented.  


"Yes," he conceded. "For all his faults, Mycroft has always been very protective of me, especially when it came to the memory of Redbeard." He looked past her, lost in thought, and Molly tried to imagine six year-old Sherlock distraught over the loss of his dog, with big brother Mycroft there to pick up the pieces. _Not much has changed_ , she mused. _Mycroft still has both eyes on his little brother_.  


"Well," he announced, shaking himself from his reverie, "that's enough melancholy for one evening." He settled his gaze on her, eyes twinkling with glee. "Ready for adventure?"  


At her nod of encouragement, he aimed the remote at the television and started the movie.  


________________________________________  


"I didn't think it was possible," Sherlock said, watching the credits roll across the screen, "but that was as much fun to watch tonight as it was thirty years ago." He turned his head in her direction. "I still can't believe you'd never seen it."  


They'd drifted to the centre of the sofa during the film, sharing a large throw blanket. "I would have been six years old when it came out, and it would have given me nightmares, not cured them," Molly replied. "I do agree it was good fun now, though."  


They shared a moment of comfortable silence, the DVD's main menu screen providing quiet background music. Molly could feel the heat of his body across the short distance that separated them, and itched to close the gap, to nestle herself against his side. The imagined humiliation of his rejection was enough to keep her where she sat, however.  


Needing a distraction, she turned to ask him how he was feeling and noticed he was watching her, his gaze dark and focused. For once she couldn't tell what he was thinking. Had it been anyone else she would have said he was debating whether or not to kiss her - but this was Sherlock, and she was just Molly - and he'd made it clear over the years he wasn't interested.  


But Sherlock proved her wrong, leaning in, his eyes drawn to her lips, telegraphing his intentions. Molly's pulse raced, her heart hammering in her chest. She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to regulate her breathing, exhaling shakily. Eight long years she had waited for Sherlock Holmes to return her affections. Waited through the cruel barbs and manipulation, through a failed engagement, through a friendship which seemed to develop at a glacial pace. And, now, finally…  


She pulled back at the last moment, placing her hand flat against his chest to stop him. _No, not tonight_ , she told herself. They could easily lose themselves to a night of passion - right there on the couch, not even making it to his bedroom, lips and hands exploring, drawing out moans and gentle sighs - but what would happen in the morning? Nothing but awkwardness, regret and, likely, the loss of a friendship. The new Molly valued herself too much to hand him her heart on a platter.  


He pressed his lips together, frowning. "I thought you wanted this."  


A manic laugh bubbled out of her. She looked up at the ceiling, trying to break the spell of his gaze. "Oh, Sherlock, you can't even begin to imagine. But I need you to want it, too."  


He opened his mouth to protest but she pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "I want you to _really_ want it. It's easy to want it when we're sitting side by side under a blanket watching a movie, but what about when you're focused on a case? Or when you're in one of your moods and everyone's either boring or annoying? Or when you want another hit and convince yourself it's for a case? I couldn't handle only being needed when it suits you." Her voice cracked, dying down to a whisper. "It would kill me."  


Sherlock threaded his fingers in her hair, cradling the back of her head, and leaned forward to press his forehead to hers. "I want to be a better man, Molly. For you, for John and for Rosie - for everyone."  


She was about to lose her resolve - she wanted to kiss him more than ever, right now; _God_ , she loved him - but her phone buzzed, giving her a well-timed distraction. "Sorry," she apologized before picking her phone up from the coffee table and reading the text that had just come in.  


_Just got called out to a homicide. I won't make it in until much later. I'm really sorry Molly. –Greg_  


Molly smiled. Last Tuesday, she would have walked out, leaving Sherlock on his own; tonight, she welcomed the extra time with the detective.  


_No worries. He's much better tonight - it's as if the pod people visited. –Molls_  


_Lol. You sure? -Greg_  


_Yes I'm sure. We watched a movie and are having a lovely time. Nothing like Tuesday. Don't worry about me. -Molls_  


_If you say so. See you later. Make sure the pod people don't pull another switch before it's my turn ;) –Greg_  


Her sniggering must have clued the detective into the topic of her conversation. He reached for her phone, snatching it from her hands.  


"Hey!" she yelped, trying to wrestle it back from his grasp. Unfortunately his limbs were much longer than hers and she could do nothing more than wave uselessly at him. 

"Hand it back!"  


"Pod people?" he cried out, feigning affront.  


"Give me my phone back, Sherlock!" she hollered, crawling over him to grab her mobile from his clutches. He finally caved in when her fingers found a particularly ticklish spot on his side.  


"Take it! Dammit, woman, take it back!" he squealed, curling up to protect himself.  


Satisfied, Molly sat back haughtily, checking her message threads to make sure he hadn't managed to send something inappropriate to Greg. Confident that her honour hadn't been sullied, she turned to her companion.  


Sherlock lay back against the far corner of the sofa, eyes half-closed, his chest still heaving from the sudden burst of activity. Maybe wrestling with him hadn't been the smartest thing to do, in retrospect.  


"You look tired," she commented, placing her hand on his knee. "Why don't you go off to bed?"  


"Nonsense," he scoffed, waving his hand at her. "I could stay up for…" Despite his protests, his mouth opened and he let out a big yawn. "... hours."  


Molly gave him a leveling stare. "Your body needs sleep so it can heal, Sherlock. This isn't like when you work a case and go days without sleeping. You've suffered extensive injuries and -"  


"I can't."  


"What do you mean you can't?" she asked.  


"Every time I fall asleep I have nightmares," he replied bitterly. "Mary, dying by my hand; John, watching indifferently as Culverton suffocates me; searching for Redbeard, knowing I'll never find him; you, lying on a slab at St. Bart's… I can't escape it."  


Her heart breaking at his vulnerable words, Molly pulled him into a hug, glad when he accepted the gesture and leaned against her. She was holding him to her, rubbing his back soothingly, when an idea came to her. "Hold on, I'll be right back." She slipped away from him and went to his bedroom, scooping up his pillow and duvet; on her way back she grabbed the book she'd brought with her and turned the lights off as she walked back through the flat, leaving only the lamp to the right of the sofa still on.  


She sat down at one end of the couch and placed his pillow on her lap. "Come on," she said, patting the pillow. "Time for you to sleep."  


When he stretched out on his side, laying his head on her lap without an argument, she wondered how he'd managed to hide his fatigue. His breaths evened out as she tucked the blanket around him. "Good night, Sherlock," she whispered, brushing a stray lock from his forehead.  


His reply, muffled by the pillow, came out as "Mfmmf…" as he drifted off into slumber. He slept soundly for the most part. When Molly sensed any distress - twitching, fidgeting and, at one point, whimpering - she would put her book aside and rub his back, making comforting noises. He'd settle back down into a deep sleep and she'd resume her reading.  


Eventually fatigue hit her as well and the printed words all began to bleed together. When she'd read the same paragraph four times, still not absorbing any of it, she put her book aside and leaned her head back.  


_I'll just close my eyes for a bit_ , she told herself as she sank back into the sofa. The combination of a long day with the comforting weight of Sherlock nestled against her lulled her quickly into a deep sleep.  


________________________________________  


When Molly opened her eyes again, a weak light was casting shadows throughout the room and she could hear the din of early-morning traffic.  


_So much for closing my eyes for a bit._  


She rubbed her face, taking stock of her surroundings.  


Sherlock was still asleep although, she realized with a blush, he'd turned around at some point during the night. His face was now pressed against her tummy, one arm bent under his head and the other hooked around her waist. He snored gently and she smiled down at him, enjoying the opportunity to watch the detective unabashedly.  


A noise in the kitchen startled her. Mrs. Hudson, perhaps? She was about to call out when she noticed a black men's coat draped across the back of Sherlock's armchair.  


She managed to extricate herself from Sherlock's grasp without waking him, standing up and stretching the kinks out of her back. That's when Molly realized she really, really had to pee.  


"Morning, Greg!" she called as she ran for the bathroom. "Be with you in a minute!"  


When she came back to the kitchen she leaned against the door jamb. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sat at the table, nursing a steaming mug of coffee, three McDonald's take out bags laid out before him.  


"Just got here?" she asked. Walking over to the coffee machine, she poured herself a mug and took the chair across from him.  


"Yeah," he confirmed, dragging his hands over his face and through his greying hair. The stress of his job had taken a toll on him, and he looked older than he was. "Another goddamn case of domestic violence. The wife left her husband a week ago and he tracked her down and killed her. What the hell is wrong with people?"  


It was a rhetorical question, so Molly simply shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. The smell of the food reminded her of how hungry she was. Reaching over, she grabbed one of the bags and peeked in it. "Ooh, are these for everyone?" she asked.  


Lestrade nodded. "Grabbed them on my way in - figured it was the least I could do for showing up late." He reached into the bag nearest him and pulled out a pack of hash browns and a breakfast sandwich. "Didn't know what you liked, so I got the sausage and egg sandwiches."  


Molly took a big bite of her sandwich, waving at Sherlock as he ambled sleepily into the kitchen. He nodded at her on his way to the coffee machine. "Molly, Greg," he greeted as he poured himself a mug.  


Lestrade's mouth hung open as he stared at the other man's back. "You got my name right," he gawped.  


Sherlock took the chair between them and grabbed the remaining bag and a handful of ketchup packets. "And you brought me breakfast even after I called you a simple-minded, incompetent wanker." He dipped his sandwich in the mountain of ketchup he'd created and took a bite. "I think," he said while chewing, "that deserves a bit of respect."  


Greg stared at him, then turned to Molly. "So, about that theory of yours with the pod people…"  


"Oh, piss off with the 'pod people', already," Sherlock grumbled.  


"You know," the other detective said lightly, "you're pretty grumpy for a man who spent the night in the arms of a pretty woman."  


Sherlock stared at him nonplussed, before he turned to Molly, frowning. "Did you stay on the sofa all night?" he asked.  


"I fell asleep," she admitted sheepishly, trying unsuccessfully to hide behind her remaining hash brown. "I woke up maybe five minutes before you did."  


Greg held out his phone to the consulting detective. "This was the scene I was greeted with this morning when I came up the stairs," he told him, chuckling. "Wouldn't have believed it for all the money in the world if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."  


Sherlock took the proffered phone and looked at the picture. His lips quirked into a smirk and he handed it over to Molly. "Best night's sleep I've had in ages," he admitted before digging back into his breakfast.  


Molly handled the device with trepidation, fearing the worst. She hadn't needed to worry, though, as the photo Greg had taken was actually rather lovely. The morning's light had been kind to her, and the play of shadows over both her and Sherlock's sleeping forms presented a pleasant contrast. She made a mental note to ask him to text it to her - once Sherlock was out of earshot, of course.  


"So what movie did you two watch last night?" Lestrade asked as he balled up the wrappers from his breakfast and shoved them into one of the bags.  


"Goonies," she and Sherlock replied at the same time.  


"My God," the detective laughed. "I must've seen that movie ten times when it came out. My mum kept saying she was going to move my bed to the cinema - I was there more often than I was home."  


Molly stood up, gathering her own wrappers up. "Why don't you boys go watch it - I'm sure Sherlock won't mind seeing it again. I'm going to go home and do a bit of laundry before I head off to work."  


Lestrade gave them both an amused glance before walking out to the living room, giving them the privacy Molly hadn't realized she'd asked for.  


"You behave for Greg," she warned Sherlock with a smile. "I don't want to hear anything about you reverting to your wicked ways."  


She was about to turn on the tap to wash the mugs when his hand strayed to hers. "Leave them," he said. "If I can't wash three cups, my issues extend beyond being a selfish cock, as John has so aptly called me on many occasions."  


"Sherlock," she gently chided, "you're not a selfish cock." When he threw her a disbelieving stare she added, "Well, not since yesterday, anyway."  


His smirk faded and he grew serious again. "I meant it, yesterday, what I said. I want to prove to you that my intentions are true - I'm not simply looking for a temporary distraction. If the past few weeks have taught me anything, it's that my life is richer for the friendships I've forged. Maybe…" He paused, cupping her cheek. "Maybe it's time I accepted the fact that I'm human, same as everyone else."  


Molly had always been able to see through Sherlock's lies; that ability had been one of the few advantages she'd ever had over him. She looked up at him, saw the sincerity in his eyes, and knew he spoke the truth - or, at least, he believed he did.  


Feeling bold, she stood up on her tiptoes and gave in to the desire to press her lips against his. Sherlock groaned and deepened the kiss, wrapping an arm around her waist and holding her to him. Molly let out a small gasp; her pulse racing, she felt giddy and lightheaded.  


When he pulled back and let go of her, he appeared just as surprised at his slip of control as she was. "When are you back?" he asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It was a gentle, familiar gesture that surprised her almost as much as his reaction to their kiss.  


"Not until Sunday night, I'm afraid," she replied, her voice husky. _Damn it - it was just a kiss!_ she chided herself. _Sure_ , her inner voice retorted, _a toe-curling kiss with Sherlock fucking Holmes. Nothing at all to it. Liar_. "It's my weekend to be on call at the hospital."  


"Pity," he replied, a sad little smile playing at his lips. "But it'll give me time to think."  


"Think about what?" she asked, although she was pretty certain she could have guessed.  


"About us."  


Her hand shaking, she reached out and touched his arm. Despite not detecting any deception on his behalf, she still wouldn't let herself believe that he really was interested in pursuing a relationship with her. As a result, she remained purposefully obtuse. "I'll see you on Sunday, then," she told him, plastering a bright smile on her face.  


"Bye Greg! You two have fun!" she called out as she left the flat at a near-jog. When she reached the street she realised she hadn't called Mycroft's taxi service. She found she didn't mind, though - she would need a very long walk indeed to sort through all the thoughts storming around in her brain.  


"Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper," she said sotto voce. "Doesn't have such a bad ring to it, does it?"  


No, she decided. It actually sounded just right.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go – chapter one! I’m excited to share this story with you and hope you enjoy reading it as much as I’m enjoying writing it.

_Where are you? – SH_

_Mycroft told us you don’t need us to watch over you anymore - JW_

_Correct - SH_

_Are you hurt? - JW_

_No, I'm not hurt - SH_

_If you tell me you’re out of bloody sugar I will go there and hurt you myself- JW_

_Let me clarify. I need your advice. About romantic relationships - SH_

_I'm on my way - JW_

_Bring milk – SH_

***

The kettle whistled just as John was coming up the steps. Sherlock could hear the rustle of a plastic bag and smirked - the good doctor could be in the worst mood and still run an errand on his way to Baker Street. 

Some things would never change. 

“Would have been here sooner, but I had to stop at Sainsbury’s to pick up your bleeding groceries,” John griped as he thumped the carton of milk onto the table. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, noting how his friend already looked exhausted despite it still being early in the day; he’d likely be short on patience, as a result. He handed him a mug of tea, acknowledging John’s “Ta” with a nod. 

They walked to the living room, taking their respective chairs. Sherlock watched as his friend shoved a stack of papers on the small side table by his chair, making room for his cup and saucer. 

“So what’s this about ‘romantic relationships’ you need my advice on? You haven’t actually met a woman, have you? I mean, you’ve been holed up in the flat for weeks, now.” 

“No. Yes. Sort of…” He took a deep breath, knowing that actually saying the words out loud would make this whole affair real, and that required a kind of bravery to which he was unaccustomed. “I need advice on how to pursue a romantic relationship with Molly Hooper.” 

“No.” 

His friend’s immediate, emphatic denial surprised him. “No?” he repeated, just to make sure he’d heard right. 

“Correct. My answer is ‘no’.” 

“I don’t…” Sherlock was at a loss for words. He thought John would have been over the moon to hear he wanted to expand his emotional side, so the refusal confused him. “Why not?” 

“Because I care too much for Molly to be an accessory in whatever cockeyed plans you have for her.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, I don’t…”

The other man slapped his hand down on the small table next to his chair, causing his cup to jump in its saucer, spilling some of its contents. “I am NOT being ridiculous! I am protecting the best interests of a very close friend whose heart you could break, and so help me God I don’t know what I’ll do to you if that happens!” 

John was angry. No, scratch that. John was beyond angry – he was livid. This wasn’t his usual ‘I’m at the end of my tether with you, Sherlock’ voice; it was his ‘Our friendship is _this_ close to being over’ voice and Sherlock was worried. The moment called for honesty if he was going to salvage whatever was left of his friendship with the doctor and succeed in his plan with Molly. 

“No, you’re not being ridiculous,” he conceded, sinking back further into his chair. “You have every right to question my motives. After all, I’ve either ignored or rebuffed every one of Molly’s advances in the years I’ve known her – why would you think otherwise?” John’s face went from a shade of purple Sherlock had never seen before to a less scary pink. _Keep talking – it’s working_ , he told himself. “However, if these past few months have taught me anything, John, it’s that our lives and those of the people we love aren’t guaranteed forever.” He felt a pang of guilt for the pain that flashed across his friend’s face, but he had a point to make and this conversation was long overdue. 

“That day when Mike Stamford introduced us, I thought I’d simply found a flatmate. You seemed like a nice enough chap and I needed help with the rent, so I figured it’d work out. What I never could have imagined was that I’d found a best friend. I’d never had friends before - not in the true sense of the word - but then I had you, and it was surprisingly gratifying to have someone at my side with whom I could share a laugh, or who would join me on my cases. And it seemed simpler after that for me to consider acquaintances as friends; like Greg, for instance…”

“Oh, you remember his name, now, do you?” Watson interrupted, amused despite his earlier anger. He picked his cup back up and took a sip, frowning when drops of tea clinging to the cup’s base dripped onto his jumper. 

“He’s earned it,” Sherlock admitted with a casual wave of his hand. “And then there’s Molly, who’s always been there for me no matter how poorly I’ve treated her - and who doesn’t let me get away with half the shit I try anymore. John, I…” 

He sighed deeply. At a loss for words, he stood up and walked to the window, hoping the visual distraction would help him organise his thoughts. Instead, his eye kept being drawn to women who looked like the diminutive pathologist. Frustrated, he turned around and walked over to the TV set which was still in the middle of the living room and grabbed the DVD she’d brought him. He tossed the plastic case to John. 

The other man caught it handily and looked it over. “Good God,” he chuckled. “The Goonies. I remember this film. Where did you get it?” 

“Molly called Mycroft - she actually _phoned_ my brother - to find out what movie I would like to watch before coming over Friday night. She also brought homemade soup and fresh rolls from a bakery so our evening would be more successful than the previous one.” He sat back down and rested his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled under his chin. “I’ve never been one for romantic entanglements - you’re well aware of this, John - which is why I’m at a loss as to where these feelings for Molly Hooper have come from. All I know is that at some point on Friday evening I looked at her and realised I wanted to kiss her; I wanted to see her smile, wanted to hear her laugh. And the scariest thing was that none of these feelings were new.” He dropped his face in his hands, letting out a frustrated groan. 

John stared at him, appraising the integrity of his confession. The doctor looked tired, the bags under his eyes more prominent than the last time they’d met, but his gaze was still sharp as he observed Sherlock. 

“All right. I’ll help you,” he capitulated. “But if this is some sort of trick or experiment, and Molly gets hurt, I will shoot you. Do you understand that?” 

Sherlock nodded. “It may be cliché for me to say so, but if I hurt Molly intentionally I will hand you the gun myself.” 

This seemed to be the right answer because John crossed his legs, settling back into his chair comfortably. “What do you need my help with, then?” 

“All of it, of course. I’ve just told you I have no experience in this sort of thing.” 

“ _All_ of it?” John asked, putting an unusual amount of emphasis on the word ‘all’. 

“Yes, _all_ of it,” Sherlock drawled, irritated at having to repeat himself on something so simple. Perhaps John had been spending too much time with Rosie and was losing the ability to hold intelligent discourse. 

“Huh,” the doctor exclaimed, chuckling to himself. “So the Woman was right after all?” 

Sherlock bristled at the mention of Irene Adler. “Right about what?” 

“You _know_ …” 

“Damn it John, I’m brilliant, not psychic. Just get it out, already.” 

“You’re a virgin.” 

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up, finally understanding John’s emphasis on the ‘all’. “Ah. _No_. I don’t need your help with _that_.”

“The Woman already helped you with that, did she?” The amused tone of John’s voice indicated he was having altogether too much fun teasing him, much to Sherlock's chagrin. 

“Yes,” he confirmed curtly, hoping the other man would drop it. But John was at it like a dog with a bone. 

“And? Come on, Sherlock, blokes talk about this sort of thing - _friends_ talk about it,” he clarified, schooling his features to look serious despite the mischievous gleam in his eyes. 

Sherlock couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. “ _Fine_ ,” he exclaimed dramatically, “it was one night and… And I can confirm with certainty that she’s _very_ good at what she does.” The memory of smooth skin, soft lips and a surprisingly gentle touch came to mind unbidden in a series of images that he pushed back into his mind palace. _Not now_ , he chided irritably. 

“Does? What do you mean ‘does’? Irene Adler died years ago, Sherlock. Unless…” His eyes opened wide in dawning understanding. “You… You saved her. Mycroft was wrong.” 

“I couldn’t let a mind like hers perish at the hands of such ignorance, John - it would have been a terrible loss.” 

“Then why aren't you with her, if she's still alive, you dolt?” John argued, his voice rising in agitation. 

Sherlock had the answer to this question at the ready - after all, he'd asked himself the same thing many times since their night in Karachi, as well as every time she texted him. “Because she's also very good at what _else_ she does,” he explained calmly. “I don't believe for a moment that saving her life precludes me from eventually being sold out to the highest bidder, and I'd rather not spend the remainder of my life sleeping with one eye open.” 

“All right, I get the Woman,” John conceded, “but I don't get Molly Hooper. How do you need my help in getting her to date you? I'm sure you just need to ask and she'll say yes - this _is_ Molly we're talking about, after all.” 

“Because she needs to believe that my intentions are honourable. And, to an extent, so do I,” he admitted. 

“Do you love her?” 

Months ago, Sherlock would have scoffed and dismissed John’s question outright. But now he admitted freely there were people in his life whom he loved: John, Rosie - how was it possible to love someone so profoundly in so little time? - Mrs. Hudson, his parents, even Mycroft. And Mary - secretly, he'd loved Mary not only for sharing John with him, but also for her ability to keep him in line when the envious sparkle in her eye told him she wished she was in on the adventure, too. 

_Did_ he love Molly? The answer was easy - of course he did. _Wrong question_ , he corrected himself. _Ask the right question_. Did he love Molly the same way he loved everyone else? _Yes, that’s a better question_. 

He loved John like a brother. An image of Mycroft flashed through his mind, and he thought better of it - no, he loved John like someone _should_ love a brother. His love for Mycroft came more from familial ties - familiarity, duty, shared history. 

Frustrated, he decided it made no sense to compare his love for Molly with that of the men in his life. That would lead him nowhere - well, nowhere that didn’t require a vat of brain bleach. 

As much as he’d loved Mary, she’d been more like a mischievous cousin, grinning as she followed him through all sorts of crazy escapades. And his feelings for Mrs. Hudson were very different again - she was more like a favourite aunt (a favourite aunt who liked to borrow his handcuffs for “entertaining” purposes, mind you). 

It wasn’t lost upon him that as someone who’d never been close to his biological family he’d managed nonetheless to surround himself with a family, albeit a surrogate one. 

Where did this leave Molly, then? Was she a sister? A quieter, mousy cousin? _No_. He dismissed the idea irritably, swishing his hands to push the words out of the family tree he’d visualized. The words _Girlfriend? Wife?_ replaced them, floating above the branch with her name on it. A warmth settled in his heart and he realised the terms felt right. 

“Yes, I love her.” 

John sighed irritably. “It took you _five_ bloody minutes to figure that out? I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten I’d asked you a question.” 

“It was a serious question that needed thorough consideration, John. I didn’t take it lightly.” 

“I suppose that's a good thing,” John sighed. “Look, Sherlock, Molly’s a pretty simple girl. She's going to appreciate old-fashioned manners, small thoughtful gestures - that sort of thing. Open doors for her, compliment her on her appearance - and not the kind of backhanded compliments you usually throw her way like ‘the colour of your jumper makes your face look less pallid’. Tell her she looks pretty, or that her hair looks nice.” 

Sherlock nodded, pretty confident he understood. “So tomorrow, before going to St Bart’s, we should stop at Starbucks to pick up a London Fog and a slice of that lemon loaf she's fond of?” 

“Wait. Since when are we going to St. Bart’s tomorrow?” It didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock that John didn’t dismiss the assumption he’d be coming along. 

“It's obvious. There was a story in the local paper today about a missing member of the House of Lords - it was well known he had a propensity for drugs and led a shady lifestyle on the side.” 

John gave him a level stare. “Mycroft called you.” 

“Yes, Mycroft called me. Told me the body has been found and that Lestrade will be calling me in the morning. The case is a five at best, but I suppose it’s a good one for easing myself back into work.” 

They shared an awkward silence before John announced he should go pick Rosie up. He went to stand, but Sherlock realized he didn't want to be alone quite yet; he'd missed having someone around these past few days and, especially, missed chatting with John. 

“How's Rosie?” he blurted out, sounding desperate even to his own ears. 

John hesitated but sat back down; he also seemed a little relieved to have a reason to stay. 

“She's great,” he started, his face lighting up like it always did when he got to talk about his daughter. As Sherlock listened to story after story of giggling and crawling and first babbled nonsense, he realized he enjoyed hearing about his goddaughter as much as her daddy liked talking about her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please review – it only takes a moment, and really does help the creative juices flow!


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we see the introduction of, gasp!, a case. This is a first for me, so I hope I’ve written it well.
> 
> A great big thank you to Marvel Lit Chick whose support and counsel as a beta are highly appreciated.
> 
> Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock & Co., I wouldn’t need to write fanfic. I’m just borrowing them for entertainment purposes.

“Where _is_ he?”  Sherlock glanced at his phone for the tenth time, irritated beyond measure that a text reply still hadn’t appeared.

“Sherlock, you’ve texted Greg six times in four minutes.  Even if he _is_ down at the morgue, it’ll take him longer than that just to get up here.”

 “He wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of walking all the way up here if _someone_ just let us through!” The detective yelled in the direction of the security guard who, unphased by the outburst, turned his gaze back to the computer monitor in front of him.

Of course, the fact that he was brandishing a Starbucks cup and take out bag may have reduced his ability to be taken seriously, Sherlock realized grimly.

“Will you keep it down?” a voice called from behind them. Lestrade, who had just arrived, walked over to the security station to sign the two in. “I could practically hear you hollering from outside.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be necessary if someone hadn’t posted security at the entrance of the bloody hospital, would it?  Whose brilliant idea was that, anyway?”  He followed the other man down the hall towards the elevators, John at his side.

“It was mine,” Lestrade confirmed humorlessly.  “We still haven’t found out whether Moriarty or one of his followers is out there or what the hell is going on.”  He stopped and turned, waiting until the consulting detective was almost nose to nose with him.  Sherlock had seen that look on his face many times over the years, but it had never been aimed at him.  Despite their being friends Greg Lestrade’s cold, sober stare gave him pause.  “It won't be a secret for much longer, what Molly means to you.  If someone’s gonna come after you, they’re going to try and go through her first.  And that won’t happen on my watch.”

There was nothing Sherlock could say to that.  No words he could find to adequately express both the relief for Greg’s vigilance and the frustration with his own shortsightedness.   _There’s always something_ , he mused sourly.  Always a detail he misses - in this case a very important detail that could have possibly cost Molly her life if it weren’t for people like Lestrade, who were better ‘big picture’ thinkers than he was.

He reached out and placed his hand on the Detective Inspector’s shoulder and nodded.  They exchanged a look, understanding each other, and the tension dissipated.  

“About this case, then,” Sherlock began as they resumed their walk down the hall.  As Lestrade relayed details about Lord Nigel Fanshawe, the consulting detective only paid him minimal attention.  Most of his focus was still on Molly and how he had failed her by not realising the danger he’d put her in by pursuing her romantically (oh, how he _hated_ that word, never mind how accurate it was.  Damn sentimentality.).  He’d often been accused - rightly so - of being a narcissist, but he’d always embraced being selfish.  It was so much easier (so much _safer_ ) when you only had yourself to worry about.  Surrounded by people he cared about, though, he now saw it as a character flaw.   _Should have realized that before Mary_ , he thought bitterly, spiralling further into his foul mood.

When Lestrade paused, looking at him expectantly, Sherlock nodded impatiently.  “Yes, yes - washed up on shore, egregious habits, I’m listening,” he said, waving at the other man to continue.  

His phone pinged, indicating he’d received a text message. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and saw a message from his brother.

_How is your investigation into Lord Fanshawe’s case progressing? -M_

Sherlock replied, still lending one ear to Lestrade.  He made sure to look up and make eye contact, nodding at what appeared to be important breaks in his account. _Slowly. We only just arrived at St Bart's -SH_

_Well, move faster. There are people in high places expecting an expedient resolution.  -M_

No one could get his goat as easily as Mycroft.  Sherlock’s fingers typed furiously, his brother’s nagging adding to his dark mood. _I couldn't care less about people in high places, or have you forgotten?  On that note I believe Buckingham palace owes me a bedsheet. -SH_

He tossed his phone back into his pocket, disregarding the ping of Mycroft’s reply. Sherlock was in the wrong frame of mind for stepping into yet another argument with his brother.

The gloom cloud followed him onto the elevator, gloomy thoughts whirling through his head, trying their damnedest to drown out Lestrade’s voice.   _If he's already got so much information, why can't he just bloody well solve the case himself?_ he thought irritably.

Mycroft was right, though.  Sherlock needed to solve the case soon. Perhaps a touch of post-case euphoria would set his temperament back to what it was prior to that morning, when his only thoughts had been about seeing Molly again and solving a crime.

When they finally arrived in the lab, Sherlock deposited Molly’s treats on her desk on his way in. His gaze settled onto the pathologist who was bent over her microscope, right     hand jotting down notes. It had been almost a week since they’d last seen each other, since they’d kissed - and yes, he’d stored that memory in his mind palace, revisiting it many times over the past six days.  The sight of her, safe and sound, was almost a physical relief.

“Molly,” he called in greeting, trying his best to inject a more pleasant tone than he was feeling.

“Oh, hello,” she greeted them, looking up from her microscope. She smiled at the three men, her eyes lingering a fraction longer on Sherlock. “Here about Lord Fanshawe, I assume?”

“Yes,” Sherlock and Lestrade both replied at the same time.  Sherlock looked at the other man and dramatically waved him on.

“Thank you,” Lestrade replied dryly. He addressed Molly, who had turned around on her stool to face them. “So, what have you discovered so far?”

“Nothing. I haven't looked at the body yet.”

“Why not?”  Even Sherlock caught the hint of impatience in the detective inspector’s question.

“Because I was already in the middle of one case when it arrived in my inbox,” she explained, pointing to the mess of folders on the table. “And I have a half dozen others in line ahead of it, I'm afraid.”

Lestrade stood there, lips pressed firmly together, hands thrust in his coat pockets.  “Molly,” he pleaded, “I'm getting a lot of pressure from above on this one.  Can you push it up the line, at least?”

Molly sighed and nodded. “Alright. I'll examine him as soon as I'm done with this. Give me thirty minutes?”

Lestrade nodded in agreement, but Sherlock didn't want to wait. He wanted the damn case settled _now_.

“Mycroft needs the case solved immediately.”  He tossed out the lame excuse his brother had used. “It appears even he has people above him, and they are expecting results.”  The argument hadn’t worked with him, but he hoped it would convince Molly.

“I get that,” she confirmed patiently, “which is why I'm bumping the case ahead.”  

“Well, can't you bump it ahead of what you're working on right now?”  Why couldn't she see how simple the solution was?  Drop everything, examine Fanshawe, provide information that will allow him to solve the case, and then everyone can go back to what they were doing.  

“Sherlock, it's only another thirty…”

“Damn it, Molly!  Can’t you see this case is more important than whatever it is you’re working on?”

The pathologist flinched at his tone. It took her just a moment to recover before she stared him down, her brown eyes blazing with a mix of hurt and righteous fury. “I'm sorry, Sherlock, please enlighten me,” she parried, her voice deadly calm.  “Are you saying the death of a sixteen year old girl is less important, or are you implying that I’m incapable of doing my job?”

All the irritation that had built up over the course of the morning dissipated, leaving behind a feeling of shame. Sherlock exhaled, his shoulders slumping.  “I'm sorry, Molly. I was entirely out of line.” He took a step forward, his hands itching to reach out to touch her but he shoved them in his pockets instead, not trusting himself not to fuck this moment up even more.  “You’re the most brilliant pathologist at St. Bart’s and I don’t for a moment doubt your ability to do your job. I was simply being… myself.”

Almost immediately Molly’s stance relaxed and the hard set of her lips softened. “Oh, Sherlock,” she sighed, “what am I going to do with you?”

“You could accept the tea and cake I brought you,” he suggested hopefully, remembering the goodies he’d bought her.  “I left them on your desk.”

“So you knew you were going to be an ass even before you came here?”

“I'm always an ass, Molly,” he pointed out wryly.   

To his relief she laughed and the stress between them - it had been a tangible thing, something that had made him uncomfortable, as if his collar was too tight - dissipated.

He turned and noticed that John and Greg had left the room.  “When did they leave?” he asked, frowning.

Molly walked by him to grab her drink and cake. “About when I was ready to slap you,” she answered, taking a sip of tea.  She paused to kiss him on the cheek on her way back.  “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Some friends they are,” he muttered, taking the stool next to hers.  He spied the paperwork for the case she was working on and, feeling nosy, slid it closer so he could look it over.  He was glossing over the information - Priyanka Kapoor, female, 16 years old, preliminary cause of death was heroin overdose - when a note in the margin in Molly’s handwriting caught his attention.   _Foul play?_ she’d scribbled.  

“Here - what’s this?” he asked, pointing to the note.

Molly popped a bite of lemon loaf into her mouth and leaned over the document to see what Sherlock was pointing at.  “Oh,” she replied, finishing chewing before continuing.  “There are a few findings from the autopsy that don’t add up to an accidental overdose - I wanted to bring them up with Detective Inspector Harris, who's leading the case.”

“What sort of findings?”  

This had always secretly been Sherlock’s favourite time spent with Molly:  when they were side by side poring over the details of a case, comparing notes, sharing the microscope and exchanging ideas.  He hadn’t lied - she _was_ brilliant at what she did.  She was efficient, observant, didn’t hastily jump to conclusions or let preconceptions cloud her judgement.  Even when he’d found her crush on him tedious, he’d still insisted on working with her because these qualities set her apart from her peers.

“Well, for starters, the needle entry points are at unusual angles.  Here, let me show you - I wouldn't mind getting your take on them.”  She pushed the microscope out of the way and slid her laptop over so it sat between them, clicking through the directory until she arrived at the right file. She scrolled through dozens of pictures, finally selecting one.  

A slender arm with needle marks appeared on screen, and Sherlock fought the urge to scratch at his own matching scars. If Molly noticed his momentary discomfiture, she didn't allude to it. Instead she leaned forward, focusing all of her attention on the computer screen. With her pen she pointed to the top of the image, drawing his attention to the newest tracks. “See these?  Miss Kapoor would have had to contort herself in order to insert the needle to match the entry holes. Her older scars don't look anything like them.”  She turned and looked at Sherlock, her face pale in the light of the laptop screen. “It looks as if someone else injected her.”

Sherlock frowned, leaning in to look at the images.  Molly’s assessment was plausible.  Even if the girl had injected herself deliberately at an odd angle, she wouldn’t have had enough wits left about her to repeat the motion a second or third time - this, he knew from experience.

“What else?” he asked, recalling she’d said “findings”.

“Priyanka Kapoor was nine weeks pregnant,” the pathologist shared.  “The older track marks on her arms were faint, which could be a sign she’d tried to stop when she found out about the baby.”  She sighed and stared at the picture which was still up on the screen before turning to Sherlock.  “I still hadn’t even kissed a boy yet at sixteen,” she admitted, a nostalgic smile on her lips.  

Sherlock also smiled, his mind going back to his own past.  “I was twenty,” he admitted.

“Really?” Molly asked.  “Actually, now that I think of it, I’m not surprised.  You were probably too distracted to even notice girls before Uni.”  She took another sip of her tea, closing her eyes and humming in pleasure as she drank.  “So who was she, this girl who finally got your attention?  Was she brainy?  Your nemesis in debate class?”

“Gods, no,” Sherlock laughed.  “She was all breasts and long legs – a living pin-up girl.”  He closed his eyes, remembering the brunette with vivid clarity.  “Barbara - that was her name.  I was hired as her maths tutor because she was useless at numbers and was going to fail first year if she didn’t pass the course.  She was easily distracted and, one rainy afternoon, I became her distraction.”

“I'm sure you weren't complaining.”  

“No, I wasn’t,” he agreed. “Her roommate had terrible timing and interrupted us before we could get anywhere.  It was a pity, though - she did have a very nice pair of…” He caught himself, remembering where he was and to whom he was speaking.  “... eyes.  She had very nice eyes.”

Molly rolled her eyes and turned back to her laptop, closing the image file and returning the screen back to an image of her cat, Toby.  “So, did this buxom young _Barbara_ pass her maths class after all?”

“Yes, but just barely, and I’m convinced her passing grade was acquired through additional time spent with her maths prof - uninterrupted, this time.”

They shared a moment of silence, Sherlock’s mind still partly with Barbara as he watched Molly gather her paperwork together into a neat pile.

“There is one finding,” the pathologist shared, bringing their focus back to her work, “that makes no sense whatsoever.  The lab detected traces of Febuxostat in her blood.  I had them conduct the tests again but the second round produced the same results.  Febuxostat is a medicine prescribed to treat gout.  Priyanka Kapoor was definitely _not_ suffering from gout.”

“Gout…”  Sherlock mumbled, slipping off his stool and pacing the length of the small lab.  “Why the hell is gout significant?”  He stopped, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. “Think, damn it, think!”  There had to be more to it than gout. Words appeared in the space above Molly’s laptop, floating in the air like taunting missives: _gout, heroin, pregnant, girl_...

The words swirled around, rearranging themselves until they provided him with an answer. “Of course!”  Sherlock stood up straight and smiled, fighting back a giggle - it would have been inappropriate, not to mention very unmanly.

Two long strides took him to Molly’s side and he planted a kiss on her lips.  “Thank you,” he whispered.

Molly stared back in shock.  “Why?” she asked breathlessly.

“You two mind bringing the rest of the class up to speed?” Lestrade grumbled as he and John walked back into the lab, paper coffee cups in hand.

Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s outburst, answering his pathologist’s - yes, she was _his_ , damn it - question.  “For standing up to me.  If you hadn’t insisted on finishing your work, I would never have realised that our cases may, in fact, be linked.”

“Linked?” the three others asked at once.  Oh, how he loved an audience when he was having a brilliant moment!

“Yes.  Molly, can you please bring up a photograph of Miss Kapoor on screen?”  Once the picture of the young brunette with haunting brown eyes appeared on her laptop, he turned to Greg and John.  “This is Priyanka Kapoor.  The sixteen year old was found dead three days ago of an apparent heroin overdose.  Through her observation of the body, Molly found some anomalies that put into question the circumstances of her death.”  He turned to Molly, staring at her expectantly.  

The pathologist seemed surprised he was sharing his spotlight with her, but quickly recovered.  She expertly took the two other men through her findings, using images to support her arguments and answering any questions they had.

“Gout?” Lestrade asked when she was done, scratching the back of his head.  “Didn’t Lord Fanshawe suffer from gout?”

“ _Exactly!_ ” Sherlock exclaimed, bouncing off the balls of his feet with excitement.  “On one hand we have a young woman, dead from a heroin overdose – either accidental or deliberate - with traces of medicine used for treating gout in her system.  On the other hand we have a deceased man known to be a heroin user, with a penchant for young girls, who suffers from gout.”  He took a breath for dramatic effect, looking everyone in the eye to make sure he had their rapt attention.  “The fact that Lord Fanshawe’s body was found after Miss Kapoor’s may also be of significance.”

Lestrade pushed away from the table against which he’d been leaning.  “Hold on, here.  Are you saying someone killed Fanshawe… because he killed this girl?”

“I’m saying it’s highly possible.  The question we need to answer is whether Miss Kapoor and Lord Fanshawe could have crossed paths and, if so, how.”

“I’m not sure if it helps, but she had paint stains on her hands,” Molly shared.  “I thought maybe she’d been taking art classes, but it’s possible she may have been painting walls or furniture.”  

“Do you have any information on her father’s occupation?”  John stepped forward, speaking for the first time.  When the three others looked at him, trying to follow his train of thought, he explained further.  “Well, she’s only sixteen, right?  If she’s working in the trades it’s most likely for a relative - might as well start with her dad, yeah?”

Molly shook her head.  “I’m afraid I don’t have any information about her family.”

Lestrade pulled his phone out.  “Let me call Harris - I’ll find out about the father.  Is there anything else you want me to ask her?”

“Ask if she had a boyfriend,” Sherlock instructed, pulling his own phone out.  “In the meanwhile I’m going to call Mycroft and ask him about possible renovations.”

“I’ll start on Fanshawe’s autopsy right away,” Molly chimed in, adding to the buzz of activity.  “I’ll ring you if I find anything unusual.”  

Sherlock nodded and watched her leave, the phone against his ear ringing.  Mycroft answered immediately.  “And?  What have you got?” he asked anxiously.

“Nothing concrete yet.  I need something from you, however - I need to know whether there were any renovations underway at Lord Fanshawe’s home or workplace.”

“Damn it, Sherlock!”  His brother yelled.  “This isn’t the time for games!  We need answers, not irrelevant questions.”

“Molly is working on a case we believe may be related to Lord Fanshawe’s death.  It involves a sixteen year old girl, Mycroft.  Pregnant, dead of a heroin overdose, traces of medicine used to treat gout in her system...”  Sherlock paused, letting his brother digest this bit of news. “It would be to the advantage of your ‘higher ups’ to give us the gift of time so we can thoroughly investigate.”

There was a long pause before Mycroft sighed deeply.  “There is currently work underway to renovate some of the offices in Parliament.”

“Lord Fanshawe’s office?”

“Yes.”  His brother’s voice sounded resigned.  “I will advise my superiors of this new development and let them know more time is needed.”  He paused, adding “Sherlock, make sure you’re certain beyond any doubt about this.  These are troubling developments and could have far-reaching consequences.”

“I'm always certain, Mycroft.”  Sherlock hung up, tossing his phone carelessly on the table. He turned his attention to Greg, who was closing off the call with his counterpart.

“Thanks, Susan.  Just send me a text when you have him; Holmes and I will make our way over.”

“Well?” Sherlock asked once the Detective Inspector ended his call.

“Harris confirmed that Sunil Kapoor is self-employed as a painter.  She's going to bring him in for us to question about Lord Fanshawe.”

“Good work, John.” Sherlock turned to his best friend and clapped him on the back. “That was an impressive example of deductive reasoning.  I guess parenthood hasn't addled your brain after all.”

The other man chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Anyone else, Sherlock, and that would have been a backhanded compliment.  Have you considered that maybe, just maybe, fatherhood has broadened my mind?”

Even just a few months ago, Sherlock would have pointedly argued with his friend - John had, after all, brought a bright pink nappy bag along on their last case, having forgotten to leave it with Rosie’s sitter.  But he was slowly realising that being right wasn’t everything; his friendship with John was still recovering and, in this case, it wouldn’t hurt to inflate his friend’s ego.

“Perhaps it has, John.”  Even as vague an agreement as that seemed to bolster the other man’s ego, and Sherlock began to see the value of ‘little white lies’.

He turned back towards Lestrade.  “Did Harris confirm whether there was a boyfriend?”

“Nah, nobody mentioned anything about a boyfriend.  Guess we’ll have to ask Mr. Kapoor when we talk to him.”  Lestrade dragged his hand over his face wearily.  He looked around at the lab and frowned as if only just realising they were still there.  “It’s doing us no good hanging around here - this place is so fucking depressing.  Why don’t we head out for a bite to eat before Harris calls back?  There’s a new Greek place near the station the guys have been raving about.”

Sherlock looked at the clock - it was just past eleven thirty - and realised he was actually hungry.  He’d been eating three meals a day during his recovery (not that he’d had any choice in the matter, thanks to Mrs. Hudson who could be _frighteningly_ convincing when she wanted to) and was annoyed to discover that his body had gotten quite used to it.  “I’m game,” he offered, his mind already on lamb kebabs.

John opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by his phone.  He looked at the call display and pursed his lips.  “It’s Rosie’s nursery,” he said.

“Hello?”  He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Yeah, I can come pick her up.  I’m across town so it might take me a bit, but I’ll head out now.  Ok, see you soon.  Bye.”  He hung up and sighed.  “Rosie’s got a fever - I’ve got to go pick her up.”

“Is she ill?” Sherlock asked.  John didn’t seem overly concerned, but the consulting detective worried nonetheless.

“No,” John replied with a sigh.  “She’s just teething.  But the nursery won’t give her any paracetamol - they have a strict rule against administering non-prescription medicine to children.”  He tugged his coat on irritably.  “Just another reason why I need to look into getting an au pair or a nanny.”

“Good luck, mate,” Greg said.  “Rowan was the worst teether ever.  He started at about 3 months; we’d go months at a time without a full night’s sleep.  Seventeen years later I still tell him it’s a wonder he’s alive.”

John chuckled and nodded.  “Well, you blokes have a nice lunch.  Looks like I’m having whatever’s left over in my refrigerator.”

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock said, waving him off.  “Give Rosie a hug for me, will you?”

“Will do,” the other man said as he left the room.  

“Well?”  Lestrade nodded towards the door.  “Let’s go.  I need to get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! Don’t forget to feed the author by leaving a review :)


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock and Lestrade pursue their investigation into Priyanka Kapoor's death, we gain more insight into their friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Marvel Lit Chick for her rad beta skills!
> 
> I do not own any of the characters from Sherlock and am not profiting from this story.

Ch 3

 

It was a quarter past twelve by the time Lestrade pulled into his parking spot at New Scotland Yard, and the two detectives immediately set off towards the restaurant.  The sidewalks were packed with a lunchtime crowd that had poured out of the various local workplaces, office workers seeking the pale warmth of an early spring sun which felt resplendent after weeks of dismal winter.

By the time they’d arrived at their destination, even Sherlock was beginning to feel the uplifting effects of the sun.  

“You mind if I have a smoke before we go in?” Greg asked.

“Not at all.”

The two men stopped at the entrance of an alley beside the restaurant, moving out of the way of pedestrian traffic. Lestrade pulled a pack of Mayfairs out of his coat pocket and offered one to Sherlock, who accepted.

“I thought you'd quit,” the consulting detective remarked as he pulled in his first drag.  Almost immediately he felt himself relax, the effects of the nicotine making their way through his system.

The other man exhaled and leaned against the sun-kissed brick of the building.  “My divorce is finally going through.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding. Lestrade’s marriage had been a train wreck the entire time they’d known each other, much of it due to his wife's penchant for infidelity. “Going that well, is it?”  

The other man let out a snort of derision.  “She's trying to play the role of woman in distress. I'm just glad the kids are old enough to tell the mediator the truth - that she's a cheating cunt.  What about you?” Lestrade asked, deflecting the focus from himself. “Thought _you’d_ quit.”

“Nearly died of a drug overdose only to almost die at the hands of a serial killer.”

Lestrade nodded, took another drag on his cigarette, and started to chuckle. Sherlock soon joined him. After all the misery they'd been through the past few months, it felt good to laugh.

They finished their cigarettes and went into the restaurant, finding an empty table in a far corner.

After the server came to take their orders, Lestrade checked his phone and placed it face up on the table. “So… you and Molly, huh?  I have to admit I've been waiting to see how long it would take you to make a move.”

“What tipped you off? The habit I had of publicly humiliating her, or how I used to capitalize on her fondness for me when I needed something?”  Sherlock couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice - he'd never understand how Molly persisted in remaining his friend through his treatment of her.

“Not since you came back, you haven't,” his friend countered. “Actually, these past few years you've been looking at Molly a hell of a lot like she used to look at you in the beginning. If she's in the room, your eyes are always after her, like you need to make sure you always know where she is.”

“Perhaps, but how do I know I'm good for her?”  And there, truly, was the crux of Sherlock’s dilemma. The more his brain got involved, the more his heart second guessed itself.

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the server, who’d come to bring their coffees. “Your meals should be out soon, boys,” she assured them, leaving a couple of creamers and milk pots.

“Look, mate, you nearly killed yourself to save John from sinking into depression. I don't think anyone is going to question your loyalty to your close friends.”

“I'm not talking loyalty,” Sherlock huffed. “I'm talking relationships. _Romantic_ relationships - something in which I have zero experience.”

“But it's all part of the package, isn't it?”  Greg leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table in front of him. “Loyalty, trust, love - you can't have any sort of relationship without that.  Take it from me - if you're not friends first and foremost, if it's just about sex, it's never gonna last.”

Sherlock considered Greg’s advice. Leaning back in his chair, he took another sip of coffee to buy himself some time to think.  

His parents came to mind. They’d just celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary the previous month - what was it about their relationship that had made it last for so long?

He recalled their weekly movie dates, the dancing lessons, the musicals they attended, the TV shows they always watched together. Quite frankly the whole thing had always annoyed him. _Can't they do anything on their own_? he'd often wondered. _Don't they get bored of each other?_

But he couldn't imagine ever getting bored of Molly. They'd spent whole days side by side at the lab, either working together or independently, and he'd been quite content to be in her company either way - and this was long before he was ever fond of her.  He was sure it could be the same if they were watching the telly or travelling.

“She loves Shakespeare.”

Greg’s voice brought him back to the conversation. “Pardon me?” he asked.

“Molly,” the other man clarified. “In case you're trying to think of things you might have in common.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “How do you know I like Shakespeare?”  He was pretty sure literature had never come up in conversation with Greg Lestrade.

“You have an entire bookshelf devoted to Shakespeare’s works, mate, most of them dog-eared. You don't have to be, well, _you_ to figure it out.”

“Alright. How do you know Molly likes Shakespeare, then?  Does _she_ have a similar collection?  A copy of Henry V that's also underlined with notations in the margins?”

“Because I talk to her,” the other man explained, slightly exasperated as if Sherlock wasn't getting a basic concept. “I have conversations with her, listen to what she has to say and I ask her questions in return. That's how us normal folks get to know people - we can't glean information from a fold in a shirt or a scuffed cell phone or whether someone favours their left leg over their right.  We have to ask.”

The server arrived at that moment with their food. “One order of keftedes and Greek salad,” she said, placing a dish in front of Lestrade.  “And lamb kebabs with rice and Greek salad for you,” she said to Sherlock.  “Can I get you anything else at the moment?”

Both men shook their heads and thanked her, digging into their lunches.

“So, what's our plan with Kapoor?” Sherlock asked, thoughts back on the case. He needed to prove to himself that a relationship wasn't going to impact his ability to do his job.

“Not much of a plan at this point, I'm afraid,” the other man replied honestly. “We’ll have a better idea once we start asking him questions about Fanshawe - we can play it by ear from there.”

Sherlock felt the vibration of an incoming call.  He fished his phone out of his coat pocket and looked at the display. “Good timing - it's Molly,” he announced, answering.

“Molly, please tell me you found something.”

To his relief, the pathologist cut straight to the chase. “You were right, Sherlock. Lord Fanshawe was already dead when he hit the water. I found a puncture wound in his chest but I can't pinpoint what could have caused it.  The closest I can come to is…”. She let out a nervous laugh. “Well, is a meat thermometer, like you’d use on a turkey.”

“A meat thermometer?” He repeated incredulously. “Molly, that’s ludicrous.”

She sighed. “I know, but it would have been something very similar - an object no more than a few millimetres in diameter, long and sharp enough to go through the ribs and muscles to pierce his heart, but not long enough to pass through the heart.  I've tried to think of tools used by painters and can't match it to anything.”  There was a pause, and he could hear her rustling paperwork. “And there's one more thing, Sherlock. Whoever did this was either very lucky or had solid knowledge of human anatomy, because the puncture was directly over his heart.  He or she knew exactly where to hit for maximum damage.”

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade who was staring at him intently, his meal momentarily forgotten. Sotto voce, he asked the detective inspector if he knew of a tool with a design similar to that of a meat thermometer.  “Something narrow and sharp, maybe ten centimetres long?”

“Sounds like an awl,” Lestrade remarked immediately.  “But that's typically used in woodworking or cabinetry…”

“Molly, can you look up an image of an awl and tell me if it could have caused the injury?”

He waited, the sound of her tapping away on her keyboard filling the silence.

“Yes,” she finally announced, “this definitely could have caused the injury.”

“Excellent. Did you find anything else?”

“Not as of yet. I called you as soon as I'd investigated the stab wound - thought you'd want to know right away.”

“I did. Let us know if you come across anything else that could help us.”

“I will. I should go - it's bad manners to keep guests waiting,” she snickered.

“I've told you before,” he scolded, “don't make jokes.”

“You say that,” she teased, “but I can hear the smile in your voice.”

He couldn't help but laugh. “Do you have dinner plans for tonight?”  He cast a quick glance in Greg’s direction and was relieved the other man was focusing on his lunch, offering him whatever privacy he could in such close quarters.

“Tonight?” she repeated, sounding uncertain she'd heard right.

“If you don't already have plans,” he insisted, pushing aside the unwelcome fear of rejection.  Irritated with himself at the awkwardness and uncertainty with which he tread on this new social ground, he nearly recanted his offer, calling the idea off.

But then she accepted, with a breathless “I’d love to,” whispered into the phone as if they were agreeing to an illicit encounter.

Sherlock closed his eyes, imagining her saying those words in that same tone but in _very_ different circumstances.  Clearing his throat and avoiding Greg’s amused glance - the man was too good at reading people, he decided self-consciously - he replied as nonchalantly as possible.  “Good.  I’ll meet you at your flat around seven o’clock, then?”

“Sounds perfect.”  They ironed out a few more details before hanging up and Sherlock dropped his phone back into his pocket, doing his damnedest to ignore the man sitting across from him.

“You’ve got it bad, mate,” Lestrade teased.

“Oh, piss off,” Sherlock replied through a mouthful of food, trying not to let it show that he was enjoying camaraderie more than he ever imagined he would.

A few moments later Greg’s phone made a robotic sound, which Sherlock knew meant he’d received a text.  The Detective Inspector looked at the incoming message and signaled for the server to bring them their bill.  “Kapoor’s at the station.”  He read a new message and added, “They asked him to come in on the pretense of asking him a few quick questions - that’ll put him in a more cooperative frame of mind.”

The two men tried to finish off as much of their lunches as they could while Lestrade settled the bill.  “You’re here for work,” he’d said, waving off Sherlock’s attempt to pay for his lunch.  “I’ll expense it.”

The sun was still shining when they left the restaurant, although the crowds had thinned somewhat.

“Harris and I will talk to Kapoor,” Lestrade explained as they waited to cross a street.  “I’m going to want you to watch through the video feed and text me if you catch onto anything we miss.”

“Hold on,” Sherlock said as they started to cross the road.  “What do you mean ‘watch through the video feed’?  Won’t I be in the room with you?”  

“This is Harris’s case, too, Sherlock.  She’s been very cooperative with us but that could change if we exclude her.  Anyway, Kapoor will be more comfortable with her than he would with two strangers in the room." 

This was ridiculous. “If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know the cases were related!” 

“But it's not about you!” The other man growled. He stopped in his tracks, pulling Sherlock out of the way of a woman jogging with a pram. “It's about a dead sixteen year old girl. It's about a murder victim who might be responsible for her death. It’s about a father who lost his daughter. What it _isn't_ about is you. So when we get back to the station you're going to swallow your pride and watch us on the video feed and do what you do best - help us solve this case.” 

They stared at each other, neither man pulling his gaze away, until Sherlock relented. “Fine,” he acquiesced, unable to come up with a valid argument that didn't make him seem like a self-centred asshole. 

They fell into step, walking back to New Scotland Yard in silence.  When they entered the building and scanned their access cards, Lestrade spoke up.  “I'm going to get security to program your card so you can get through at St. Bart’s.  Otherwise I'm gonna have to drive down there to sign you in every time you want to visit your girlfriend.” 

Sherlock nodded, pondering the term ‘girlfriend’ and whether it made him and Molly sound like a pair of teenagers. Despite his own repulsion towards the word he assumed she'd be chuffed, so he was willing to tolerate it for her happiness. 

“Thank you,” he responded, following Greg through the hallways.  

They arrived at a doorway beside which stood a very tall woman dressed in a very business-like blouse and pencil skirt. “Lestrade,” she greeted the other man with a nod. 

Greg nodded back, introducing the two detectives. “Sherlock, this is Detective Inspector Susan Harris.  Susan, this is Sherlock Holmes.” 

They shook hands, and Sherlock took the opportunity to observe the female detective.  She was tall - nearly as tall as him, even in flats - and her blonde hair was cut at an angle just below the jaw ( _professional, yet feminine, indicating comfort with her gender_ ). She was slender but fit ( _most likely a runner_ ) and had a sharp, calculating gaze ( _has earned her position, unlike many idiots working here_ ). 

“Mr. Holmes,” she greeted dryly. “Your reputation precedes you.” 

“And what are they saying about me these days?” Sherlock was pretty sure he already knew the answer. Despite his track record with helping them solve cases, he was not popular with the men and women of New Scotland Yard - most likely because he never failed to remind them of his superior intellect. 

“That you're a pompous, self-centred cock with an uncanny ability for solving the most impossible crimes.” 

_Yep._ “Right on all accounts, I'm afraid.” 

His candidness seemed to amuse her and the set of her shoulders relaxed very slightly, the corner of her lips pulling into a smirk. “Interesting. What do you deduce from looking at me?” 

He caught Lestrade's look of warning from the corner of his eye and understood his intention - he needed to tread carefully and not upset her. 

“You've recently lost someone dear to you - a male relative, perhaps your father, brother or a favourite uncle - and the stress has led to the temptation of smoking, which you gave up years ago. In order to fill the void of this loss you've taken in one… no, two kittens, adopted from the RSPCA, which will also help fill the time you used to spend running but had to stop because of a knee injury.”  He pointedly left out the bit about her recent divorce, hoping he'd still managed to satisfy both her curiosity - sometimes he felt like a circus sideshow - as well as Lestrade’s silent plea. 

“How…  How did you get all that from a glance?”  Her gaze was keen, curious, but not upset. _Good_ , he thought to himself. 

“It's very simple,” he explained.  “People look, but they don't see. You're wearing a gold chain that's too long for you and is a gauge typically reserved for men's jewelry. Since you are meticulously dressed and your other accessories are very feminine, it indicates that the necklace is being worn for sentimental reasons rather than for adornment. People tend to be more sentimental shortly after a loss, during the period of depression; once you enter the acceptance phase of grieving you'll most likely put it away with other cherished belongings.”  He pointed to her forearm, just beneath the rolled- up sleeve of her shirt. “You’re wearing a nicotine patch and you've been chewing your cuticles, however your fingers don't show any signs of chronic cigarette use.  As for the kittens, there are two very different kinds of cat hair woven through your skirt and both of your hands are marred with dozens of tiny superficial scratches - more than one kitten could cause, hopefully - and I can still see a faint note written in pen on the inside of your wrist with ‘RSPCA’ and their phone number,” he added, with a small smile. “And lastly, your left knee is slightly inflamed and you are favouring your right side - a very common running injury.” 

Harris stared at him, dumbfounded, then turned to Lestrade. “I don't care what everyone says. I like him,” she stated bluntly, opening the door to a small room filled with electronics. 

The two men shared a look and followed her in. Mr. Kapoor was already on-screen, seated at a metal table in a plastic chair, a styrofoam cup on the table before him.   

Lestrade gave Sherlock a quick overview of the equipment, showing him how to toggle between camera views and how to adjust the sound. “And if anything comes up, like a clue or a question you want us to ask, just text me.” 

Sherlock nodded and took a seat while the two detectives left the room. He played around with the controls, familiarizing himself with the few angles they gave him.  Already, he'd been able to deduce a few insights about Kapoor. The man appeared at ease yet still sat up straight with good posture, which pointed to either a military career or a more formal upbringing rather than anxiety. He was taller than many people of Indian descent he'd met, a sign he’d had proper nutrition while growing up. And, although he was still dressed in his work clothes – a pair of dark blue heavy cotton pants and a grey t-shirt - they were in good condition and didn't show the wear and tear of clothes worn day in and day out - he must have owned many such outfits. 

All of these were signs of someone who had grown up with money.   _Relevant, or not?_ he wondered, tabling the thought for later. 

Kapoor stood up when Harris and Lestrade entered the room. He shook her hand first, then Lestrade’s as she introduced the two men. 

“Thanks for agreeing to come by again, Mr. Kapoor,” Harris said. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is working on a case he believes you might be able to help him with.” 

“First off, I want to offer my condolences for your loss,” Lestrade offered as he and Harris took their seats. “This can’t be easy for you, so I really do appreciate your coming by to talk.” 

Kapoor nodded, sitting down across from them. His face was drawn, exhaustion clear across his features.  “Thank you.  It's been a very difficult time for me.  You see, I only had Priyanka - it had just been the two of us since her mother passed away a few years ago.”  He took a few deep, shaky breaths, trying to retain his composure. 

Sherlock noted his accent - _Urban, most likely Mumbai or Delhi_ \- which supported his previous theory that Mr. Kapoor could have been raised in a more affluent neighbourhood. 

“Have you received the results of the autopsy yet?” he asked, turning towards Harris. 

“I'm afraid not,” the detective replied gently. “I've been assured it's underway, however.” 

The man simply nodded in understanding, not replying. 

“Mr. Kapoor,” Lestrade began, “You’re part of the team that's working on the renovations underway in some offices at Parliament, am I correct?” 

Sherlock listened intently, splitting his focus between the man's responses and his mannerisms. Lestrade, and Harris he assumed, was a keen observer of body language but it never hurt to have a third set of eyes watching.   

As the questioning progressed, a thought began to press at the outskirts of his mind. Something Molly had said when she’d called him at the restaurant. Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a quick detour into his mind palace. In it, he found an old-fashioned answering machine similar to what his parents still used. He rewound the tape, listening to Molly’s words:  “ _Whoever did this was either very lucky or had good knowledge of human anatomy, because the injury was directly over his heart.  He or she knew exactly where to hit for maximum damage_.” 

In the corner of the room stood a makeshift table made of a sheet of plywood and sawhorses.  On one end lay painting supplies:  a tin of paint, a tray, rollers, tape knives and a drop cloth. On the other, an awl.  Sherlock picked up the small tool and walked over to the far end of the table.  The awl didn't seem to fit in. 

_Fit in…_ he thought, an idea coming to mind. Holding the awl tightly, he placed it under the lid and pushed down on it, popping the lid off. It worked like a charm. 

“You've figured out the awl,” he muttered to himself. “Now figure out why Molly's words are so important.” 

He left his mind palace, his eyes moving back to the three people on-screen.  How would Sunil Kapoor, a painter, have a good knowledge of human anatomy? 

He thought of Khalid, a taxi driver with whom he rode at least weekly. Originally from Iran, Khalid had been a doctor before immigrating to England. His credentials not recognized in his new home country, he'd been forced to settle for whatever work he could find - in his case, a taxi driver. 

_Damn it… Of course!_  Grabbing his phone, Sherlock typed madly, sending Lestrade a text. 

_An awl can be used to pry open paint tins. Ask him what his profession was back home.  Molly said the killer would have a solid knowledge of human anatomy. -SH_  

He watched Lestrade check his phone and pause, seemingly confused. 

“Come on,” Sherlock growled from the room. “I practically handed it to you!”  He stood up and paced the room, fighting the temptation to run off towards the interrogation room. All these people and their tiny, useless minds. 

Finally, the other man seemed to catch on to Sherlock’s train of thought.  He put his phone back down on the table and dragged his hands up his face and through his hair, a habit he had when he was unhappy with a situation.   

“Out of curiosity, what is it that you used to do back in your home country?” he asked, looking back up at the other man.  The question seemed to be a complete non sequitur, but Sherlock caught the slight shift in the grieving father’s posture.   

“Excuse me?” he asked, his left leg now bouncing noticeably under the table. 

“What was your profession before moving to England, Mr. Kapoor?” Lestrade asked again, more directly this time. 

“I was a cardiac surgeon,” the man responded quietly.  “When I moved here, I discovered my degree was insufficient for working in my field, hence…”  He shrugged, smiling self-consciously and waved at his paint-spattered clothing. 

It was the answer Sherlock had been anticipating but, instead of the usual exhilaration of being proven correct, he felt saddened, somehow.  Because he knew Lestrade’s next question, and he knew the answer that would follow.

“Would you happen to have an awl among your tools?”  Harris seemed unsure about the question - Sherlock could tell from the slight tilt of her head - but a knowing look passed between the two men in the room before Kapoor broke down and began to weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N** :  Thanks for reading!  Don’t forget to review – it helps the creative juices flow!


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly helps Sherlock sort through his feelings when the usual post-case euphoria is missing. Afterwards, they make the decision to take their relationship further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the story takes a turn towards M, so be warned!
> 
> Thanks as always to Marvel Lit Chick for her guidance and support. Also, as much as it would make my day, I do not own any of the characters from Sherlock.

“You seem unusually quiet for having just solved two murders.”

Sherlock looked up at Molly, realising he’d been lost in quiet contemplation.  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, staring down curiously at the mashed potatoes he’d somehow fashioned into a wall.

When they’d met at her flat earlier that evening the pathologist had suggested they try a new restaurant that had recently opened not far from where she lived.  On the walk over Sherlock had filled her in on Mr. Kapoor’s interrogation:  the distraught father had confessed to finding Priyanka’s purse in Lord Fanshawe’s office while cleaning out his equipment after her death - it had been stuffed behind a cabinet, when Kapoor clearly remembered her taking it with her on the last day she’d worked.  When confronted with the accusation, Fanshawe flippantly admitted to drugging her with a heroin cocktail resulting in her death.  Enraged, Kapoor had grabbed the closest thing at hand - an awl - and had stabbed the man in the heart.

In the aftermath of the case’s resolution, Sherlock found himself unusually melancholy.  “I'm…  I’m wondering if it was too early for me to jump back into the game.”

Molly put her fork down, giving him all her attention.  “Why do you think that?”

He sighed.  “I’m finding it difficult to get any satisfaction out of today’s success after watching Kapoor’s life crumble before my eyes.”  He was frustrated with himself - he’d never had any problems moving past investigations, leaving the messy emotional cleanup to others, but the man’s teary confession had struck a nerve that prevented him from keeping his usual clinical detachment.  “Perhaps I’m still ill,” he mused out loud.

His companion let out an amused huff and reached over to take his hand in hers.  “Sherlock, you’re not broken,” she insisted, pinpointing his fears with more acuity than he’d been able to.  “You’re developing empathy; that’s not a bad thing.”

He looked down at their hands, hers so small next to his, and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.  Her skin was dry from the harsh soap she used at the hospital - she likely saw this as a small price to pay for the good she did.  Molly gave of herself with every autopsy she performed, lending a voice to those who could no longer speak for themselves, yet this didn’t make her less capable. If anything, sentiment made her a better pathologist.

“I've spent my whole life firmly entrenched in the belief that emotions are a defect in the human condition. I'm afraid it's going to take some time for me to get used to thinking otherwise.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we have lots of time, then,” she assured him, giving his hand a squeeze before picking her fork back up.  “How’s your steak?” she asked, spearing another bite of her meal.

“It’s very good,” Sherlock admitted, truly impressed with the quality of the food for a small mom-and-pop restaurant.  “The mashed potatoes, however, are divine.  I don’t know what’s in them but I’ve never tasted anything like it.”  He nodded at her dish.  “And your salad?”

“Delicious.  The goat cheese and candied nuts go very well together - I wouldn’t have thought of it.  I’m glad I suggested this restaurant,” she added, looking around at the establishment’s homey decor.  “With everything that’s happened over the past few months, I really haven’t had a chance to try many of the restaurants in the neighbourhood.”

“How are you liking your new flat?” Sherlock realised they’d never discussed her new home. He felt like a jackass for not having asked her sooner and wondered how she had managed, so soon after Mary’s death, a move across the city.  “Are you settled in?”

His companion nodded, taking a sip of her chardonnay.  “It’s wonderful - it’s so much better than my old flat.  It’s quiet, brighter, more spacious - I actually have a room set up for Rosie - and, best of all, I have a small backyard.  I only wish Toby was still around to enjoy it with me.  He would have loved to watch the birds from the kitchen window.”

“Your cat?  Did he run away during the move?”  Sherlock had never been a cat person but he had to admit Molly’s tabby had been tolerable as far as cats went the few times he’d used her house as a bolt hole.  

“No, I had to have him put down just before I moved.  He’d developed lymphoma - it was the humane thing to do.”   

This time he reached for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.  “I’m very sorry, Molly.  I know he meant a lot to you.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Thank you.”  

They shared a quiet moment, both focused on their meals, before she spoke up again.  “I heard John had to pick Rosie up early from daycare earlier today.”

“Yes, she had a fever.  Something about teething.”

“Oh dear,” she frowned. “I’m not sure who I pity more - her or John.”

“How do you mean?”  Sherlock set to scraping every last bit of mashed potato off his plate with the last bite of his roll.  Yes, they really were _that_ good.

“You know how Rosie is such a lovely child - she’s always smiling or giggling or content to just sit on your lap and watch what’s going on around her?”  She waited for his nod before continuing.  “Well, she’s an absolute nightmare when she’s teething.  The Rosie I looked after last Saturday spent most of the day crying, fussing or screaming.  She didn’t want up, she didn’t want down, she kept asking for her bottle but would throw it away when I gave it to her.  At one point…”  She leaned in over the table and whispered conspiratorially.  “At one point I just left her in her playpen and went outside for a breather, to gather my wits back.  She was safe and everything,” she rushed to explain.  “But I just needed five minutes of quiet before throwing myself back in the fray.”

“That certainly would explain why he’s been more tetchy than usual.”  Sherlock thought back to his observations upon greeting John that morning - the doctor still had dark rings under his eyes, had been slouching and had worn a light coat better suited to early summer than late winter.  All were signs of exhaustion for John.  “Greg mentioned he’d gone months without proper sleep when his son was teething.  I don’t usually believe in this sort of thing, but perhaps we should cross our fingers and hope that Rosie gives her daddy - and godmother - an easier time of it.”

“Hear, hear,” Molly concurred, lifting her wine glass in agreement and taking a sip.  

***

They left the restaurant hand in hand, bracing themselves against the chill of the late winter evening. Sherlock suggested they take a roundabout way back to Molly's flat under the pretext they walk their dinner off, but truth was he wasn’t ready for the night to end.  The very thought of returning to his quiet, empty flat depressed him. He'd rather gotten used to having company, to the point where a silent 221B Baker Street - something he once actively sought out - now felt dreary.

Despite the cold weather, there were many people out and about, coming and going from restaurants, getting some last-minute shopping done, or simply out for a late evening stroll.  Sherlock and Molly blended in well among the crowd, the former observing the goings-on while searching for a topic of conversation.  An Othello board game displayed in the window of a toy store triggered a memory of his chat with Lestrade over lunch.  “Greg tells me you enjoy Shakespeare.”

“Yes,” Molly confirmed, looking up at him and smiling. “I _love_ Shakespeare. Doesn't matter what it is - the romantic plays, the bloody plays, the comedic ones - I've read them all at least once.  My favourite is Coriolanus.”  She laughed out loud at the incredulous look he threw her way, causing a few passers-by to look their way. “I know - Coriolanus is a total cock, but that’s what makes the play stand out from Shakespeare’s other tragedies.  In no other play is the protagonist so utterly unlikeable. I’m curious, though - how on earth did you end up discussing Shakespeare with Greg?”

“He mentioned it because he thought I'd want to know something we had in common.”  He cast a furtive glance her way, unsure what she'd think of him discussing their burgeoning relationship with Lestrade.  From what John had told him, women discussed relationships all the time - in embarrassing detail, sometimes - but he didn’t know whether it was acceptable for the reverse to happen.

She smiled wistfully, squeezing his hand and leaning into his side. “This is where I really miss Mary,” she confessed. “She'd be pulling all the sordid details out of me over a bottle of Shiraz and a pint of cherry ice cream.”

It was the first time any of them had reminisced about Mary, and Sherlock felt a tightness in his chest he assumed would never wholly go away.  “She was an amazing woman.  A great friend to us all.”

They walked a few steps before Molly spoke again. “I miss her,” she said, her voice small and sad.

“So do I, Molly. Every single day. I can only assume it’ll get easier over time.”   _I hope_.

They stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. Sherlock noticed they were alone and, acting on impulse, leaned in to press his lips against hers in a slow, heated kiss.

“What was that for?” she asked breathlessly, her cheeks flushed from more than just the cold.

Sherlock made a point of pretending to think.  “Because I felt like it,” he replied, a smile coming easy to his lips.

She laughed, then, all sadness lifting from her features, and Sherlock felt his own heart grow lighter.

They crossed the street and Sherlock spied her flat up ahead.  It had come as no surprise earlier in the evening that Molly’s door was the one adorned with a cheery wreath, as if she was trying to coax spring out of its hiding place a few weeks early.  He walked her to her door like a proper gentleman, following her down the few steps.

Molly leaned back against the door jamb, the fingers of one hand intertwined with his.  “Thank you for tonight, Sherlock. I had a lovely time.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he replied sincerely.  “The only regret I have is not asking you to dinner before now.  If only I'd pulled my head out of my ass sooner we could have been doing this years ago.”

She looked up at him, smiling impishly. “And we could have been doing this, too.”  Standing on the tips of her toes - even in her bulky winter boots she was still much shorter than him - she pressed her lips to his.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her close to him, and deepened the kiss.  All his senses were focused on the woman in his arms, from the faint vanilla notes of her perfume, to the taste of orange candy on her tongue to the feel of her fingers twisting through his hair.  He shifted, pressing her backwards and ignoring the crunch of the wreath as her back hit the door.  “Molly,” he moaned between kisses before tearing himself away, resting his forehead against hers.  

“Stay. _Please,_ ” she asked in a breathless plea, her fingers clutching the lapels of his coat.

Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest at the implications of her request. “Are you sure?” He searched her face for any sign of uncertainty but only saw the same desire he felt.

“God, yes,” was her immediate and earnest reply.

Unable to form words, he simply nodded and watched as she dug through the contents of her Mary Poppins-sized purse for her keys.  He shoved his fists in his coat pockets, his left hand hitting a box he’d purchased on the trip to Molly’s from Scotland Yard.  “You might want to hit a Boots before you get there,” Lestrade had suggested, eyebrows raised.  At Sherlock’s blank stare he had sighed, hiding a smile behind the back of his hand.  He’d leaned in, clarifying what he meant.  “ _Condoms_ , mate.  You’re gonna want to buy some. Just in case.”  

After the initial shock had worn off, Sherlock had realised Greg was right - it was indeed better to be prepared for any possible scenario, as unlikely a scenario sex had seemed at the moment.  Yet here he was, entering Molly’s flat with that exact purpose in mind.

He closed the door behind him and was immediately pressed between it and Molly’s 5’3” frame.  Her mouth was on his, hungry and demanding, her fingers prying the buttons of his Belstaff apart.  He shook out of his stupor, reaching out to divest her of her coat, too.  They moved away from the door, leaving their coats in a heap where they fell, kicking shoes and boots off as they went.

Molly took his hand in hers and led him through her home until they reached her bedroom.  She walked over to her bedside table, switching her lamp on and turning to face him.

The whoosh of blood in his ears drowned out all sound apart from the thumping of his heart, ready to break from its cage.  Molly came to stand before him, her brown eyes looking up at him uncertainly - it was somehow comforting to see a bit of his own shyness reflected in her gaze.

Sherlock cursed his trembling fingers as they undid the buttons of her blouse one by one, revealing her pale skin to his gaze. Molly may not have been The Woman, cunning and dangerous and groomed for this sort of thing, but he cared greatly for her and this actually _meant_ something.

He slid the fabric from her shoulders, watching it fall to the ground and lifted his gaze back up to meet hers. Her eyes were wide with desire, but also patient and loving as she stared back up at him knowingly.  Molly Hooper understood Sherlock like no one else did.  Somehow, she knew this was a first for him.  Not the sex, but everything else - he was going to expose a part of himself he'd never shared with anyone:  his heart. After this, nothing was ever going to be the same ever again.

He'd never been so scared in his life.  

Molly reached up and cupped his cheek, grounding him with a touch of her lips against his.  When she pulled back and began to unfasten his shirt buttons, carefully and methodically just like he had done, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep shaky breath.

His mind went back to the few sessions he'd had with a psychologist after Mary’s death, recalling the trick she'd shown him for when he felt like he was losing his grip. “Imagine you're a strong tree - an oak, or a plane - and your roots stretch out beneath you, grounding you, holding you in place, keeping you strong.”  He'd thought it was a load of codswallop at the time - “ _Pretend you're a tree_ ,” he'd grumbled on his way out of his final session, “I can't believe they hand these people doctorates.”  But right now, facing a situation where he was out of his element, he grudgingly admitted it was helping.

A tug on the clasp of his trousers brought his attention back to the moment and he opened his eyes to see that Molly had shed her skirt, leaving her clad only in her underwear. She smiled and a blush coloured her cheeks. “They don't match,” she pointed out self-consciously, waving at the red push-up bra and grey polka dot cotton underpants.

Sherlock stared at her, confused as to why she would point out something so obvious. _He_ certainly didn't care whether her underclothes matched - his brain was too busy trying to keep up with his cock to care about something like that.

_But she cares_ , he realized, observing her body language.  She had one arm crossed in front of her, clasping the opposite elbow, and was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “That doesn't matter,” he assured her, his voice gravelly with desire. “You're still beautiful.”

She smiled then, her face radiant, and Sherlock congratulated himself mentally for saying the right thing at the right time for once in his life.

He took a step towards her, catching himself as he tripped over the trousers that had pooled around his feet. “Goddamnit,” he grumbled, kicking them aside.

Molly giggled and held her hand out to him, leading him to her bed.  Sherlock sat at its edge, placed his hands on her hips and pulled her to stand between his thighs.  The light of the lamp cast a warm glow on her skin, the play of shadows creating a tantalizing contrast.  Giving in to his desire, he leaned forward and swept his lips across her stomach, drawing a surprised gasp from his lover.

“ _Sherlock,_ ” she moaned, gripping his shoulders to steady herself.  He continued his exploration with his lips and tongue, cataloging her responses.   _Ticklish along her ribs; presses closer when I kiss between her breasts - she likes that; squirms away when I’m close to her bellybutton - she doesn’t like that…_ His hands slid up her back to her bra strap, agile fingers moving across it, seeking the hook and loop fastening.  

Laughing softly, Molly whispered “It’s at the front” and took half a step back to give him a chance to see what he was doing.  Sherlock smiled back at her a little self-consciously and pried the clasp apart with two fingers.  Whatever smart comeback he had about the ease of undoing a front clasp versus a back one died on his tongue when her breasts were revealed to him.

He reached up and slid the straps down her arms, carefully setting the bra aside on the bed.  “I do believe this is my new favourite colour,” he half-joked, patting it.  

“Maybe I’ll go buy a few more,” she replied playfully, her fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck.  

He pulled her back to him, leaning forward and capturing a breast in his mouth, rolling his tongue around her nipple. Molly moaned and pressed closer, shifting so she could place one knee to his side on the bed, straddling his leg.  

Molly’s skin was warm and soft beneath his touch, her body pliant against his.  When she ground down on his thigh in tandem with his mouth’s attention to her breasts, her hands gripping his shoulders, he found his focus wavering.

He slid his hand from her waist to the curve of her ass, slipping one finger under the elastic of her underpants, tracing a path along her inner thigh. Molly let out a surprised squeak, followed by a giggle, and jumped back.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “I should have mentioned I'm ticklish.”

“What?”  Sherlock asked innocently. “When I do this?”  His fingers went back to the same spot, lightly following the same line.

Molly let out a squeal and jumped forward, knocking him onto his back on the bed. “Stop it!” she begged, laughing, swatting at his hands and squirming.

He looked up at her, her cheeks flushed and eyes dancing, and tried to remember the last time he'd been silly (Rosie notwithstanding). All he could come up with was his time spent with Redbeard, a lifetime ago.

_No, that won't do anymore_ , he realized.

“Hang on,” he warned before flipping them over and settling himself in the cradle of her thighs.

Molly looked up at him, her brown eyes warm. “You look ten years younger when you smile,” she said. “You should do it more often.”

“It's easy to smile when you're in love,” he proclaimed, realizing only too late what he'd said out loud.  Molly stared up at him, mouth agape, eyes as wide as his must have been in the wake of his revelation.

Sherlock cursed his treacherous mouth. Now she'd want to talk about it, want to ask a thousand questions about sentiments and intentions and a multitude of other things he didn't want to discuss because, quite frankly, he didn't have the answers to any of it.  

But Molly Hooper surprised him, as she so often did.  She didn't talk - didn't say a word at all.  Instead, she reached up and pressed her lips to his passionately, pouring her acknowledgement of his declaration into an embrace.

After that, all he could think about was the velvet slide of her tongue against his, her body warm and soft beneath his. She offered herself so freely to him; he wondered whether she wanted him, _needed_ him, anywhere near as badly as he wanted and needed her.

Tentatively he began to rock against her, emboldened when she threw her head back and moaned his name, her voice deep and needy.

She looked back up at him, pupils blown wide. “You wouldn’t happen to have any condoms, would you?” she asked.

“Condoms?” he repeated dumbly, trying to rouse any remaining faculties that hadn't fled south.  When she pressed back up into him, her eyes fluttering closed, a small sigh escaping her parted lips, his brain kicked back into action. “Ah, yes. In my coat pocket.”   _Very_ reluctantly he pulled away from Molly’s embrace to fetch the condoms from the front room.

When he returned she was snugly ensconced under the blankets. He spied her knickers on the floor, and the weight of what they were about to do suddenly hit him.

Nervously, he divested himself of his underpants and slid in beside her, unsure of how to get back to where they’d been before he’d left the room. The short walk to her front entrance had calmed his libido enough for his brain to jump back into the driver’s seat. He knew what was going to happen:  he was going to overanalyze everything and ruin what they'd begun.

“Sherlock,” Molly's gentle call drew him back from his brooding. “Look at me.”

When he did, he saw patience and love in her warm gaze.  “I know you need to understand, up here,” she tapped two fingers at his temple, “why you feel what you feel over here.”  She placed her hand over his heart.

With a sly smile, she looked at him through her thick lashes and lowered her hand to grasp his erection. “And what you feel down here, too.  But sometimes there are things the brain can't comprehend and you have to accept it.”

Sherlock groaned and shut his eyes, her touch nearly undoing him.  He took a deep shaky breath, collecting his thoughts before bringing his gaze back to meet hers. “Like how you can still love me despite how I've treated you over the years?”  

Her smile turned a bit bittersweet and she nodded. “Yeah, like that. You don't know how many times my brain tried to right my heart when it came to you, Sherlock, but one compliment, one smile, one tender carrot dangling from a rope and I was lost to you all over again.”

“I don't ever want to hurt you again, Molly.”  He reached over and pressed his lips to hers, trying to convey feelings for which he couldn't find adequate words.  He could almost hear John scoffing “Sherlock at a loss for words - now _there's_ a sign of the apocalypse.”

Rolling them over, he sat back on his haunches and reached for the box he'd dropped onto the bedside table.  He pulled out a condom, tore it from its foil, rolled it on and lay back down, resting his weight on one forearm, waiting for her silent assent.

He rested his head in the crook of her shoulder as he slid in her. Sherlock's mouth had already betrayed him - who knew how much his eyes would reveal?  After the initial euphoria of being nestled inside her - warm and soft and could he _please_ spend his life here - he began to move slowly.

“Oh, _Sherlock,_ ” Molly exhaled, exposing her neck to his lips and tongue, her fingernails scratching up the length of his back and shoulders.

The sensation went straight to his cock and he growled “Do that _again_ ,” curling himself closer to her and increasing his pace.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling up to meet each thrust, her internal muscles clenching around him every time he sank deep inside her.  Molly tangled her fingers through his hair, rubbing her nose against his cheek, whispering a litany of naughty confessions against his skin.  “I always wondered what it would feel like to have your cock deep inside me, to watch you lose control, shaking with need…”

Sherlock answered with a groan, amazed he'd been able to muster that much coherence. His mouth found hers, devouring it, trying to relay the words he couldn't say through kisses instead.  It wasn't long before he was on the cusp of coming so he pulled out completely.

Confused, Molly opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing but Sherlock placed a finger across her lips.  “I'm too close,” he admitted. He gave her what he hoped was his most dashing grin and added “Anyway, I think it's time to change focus for a while.”

He heard her exclaim “Sherlock, what are you… _oh_!” as he slid down the length of her body, settling himself between her legs.

He pressed his mouth to the soft, pale skin of her thighs, his lips and tongue tracing a path towards her centre.  Her sex glistened with arousal, its heady scent intoxicating.  Sherlock slid a finger along her folds, tracing a path around her clit, a primitive shot of pride flowing through him when she whimpered, her thighs trembling.  

Sherlock's mouth replaced his finger, his tongue exploring Molly, teasing her, tasting her, drawing out every sensation until she was begging him shamelessly.  When he caved in to her pleas, sliding two fingers in her, she came almost immediately, calling his name out in a long sensual moan.

He climbed back up, holding himself above her on shaky arms, his heart beating wildly as he looked down at her.  At that moment she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and he cursed his inability to find the words to let Molly know what she meant to him.  If only he’d dedicated a room to poetry in his mind palace instead of tobacco ash…  

His lips met hers as he entered her once again. The kiss and his pace were both cautious, Sherlock exercising shaky restraint in order to maintain control of himself.

Molly pulled back from their embrace, her lips ghosting up the edge of his jaw to his neck. She took his earlobe in her mouth, giving it a playful nip. “Stop holding back,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin, her words burning his resolve.  “Fuck me, Sherlock, _hard_.”

Her words undid him, utterly and completely, tearing down the walls he'd built around himself.  His mind was blissfully quiet for once and all that was left was the sensation of his and Molly’s bodies, joined in the most intimate of ways, racing towards the precipice.

When Molly went stiff beneath him, her breath catching in her throat before letting out a keening wail, Sherlock let go and followed her.

***

It seemed to take forever for his heart rate to slow back down.  Sherlock was quite content to use this as an excuse to remain exactly where he was, nestled against Molly, his face pressed into the junction of her neck and shoulder, feeling the tattoo of her own heartbeat against his chest.

“You know, we're going to have to separate eventually.”  Molly pulled back and looked up at Sherlock, cheeks still flushed, her lips pulled up into a lazy smile.

“Personal space is overrated,” he teased before rolling over onto his back and discarding the condom.  He turned back onto his side facing her, reaching out and pulling her into the circle of his arms.

“Are you staying the night?”  she asked, her tone hopeful.

“If you’d like,” he replied, the thought of having to get dressed, brave the cold and spend the night alone at his flat unappealing when the alternative was to stay in a warm bed curled up with Molly.

“Mmm…” she purred, pressing herself against his side, her leg draped over his.  “I’d like that very much.”  She propped her head up on her elbow, looking down at him, one finger drawing lazy circles on his chest.  “I’ve got half a loaf of bread that’s gone stale - I could make French toast for breakfast.”

“With powdered sugar?” he asked, his mouth watering at the very thought.  His body was a jumble of sensations - he was tired, he was still horny (he didn’t think _that_ would subside any time soon, what with Molly draped halfway across him) and now he was hungry.  

The sound of her laughter made him smile.  “I think I might have some powdered sugar somewhere.”  She caught his eyes closing - sleep was winning, it seemed - and leaned over him to turn the lamp off.  “Time for sleep, now.  Goodnight, Sherlock,” she whispered, kissing his cheek.

“Goodnight, Molly,” he mumbled back, closing his eyes and sinking comfortably into his pillow.

The sound of Molly's voice pulled him back from the brink of sleep. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”  He opened one eye, finding her watching him soberly.

“Did you find anything out about Priyanka’s pregnancy?”

“No. That's one mystery yet left unsolved, I'm afraid. Harris is planning on releasing her pregnancy to the media to see if a boyfriend might come forward.  If nothing comes of it, they may never find out the truth.”

Molly's lips were set firmly into a tight line. “Three generations of a family, ruined. It's tragic.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled her against him, kissing the top of her head. “It’s because of your superior abilities that it’s not a greater tragedy - at least now we have more answers than questions.  But there isn’t anything more you can do right now, Molly - try and get some sleep.”

She sighed and melted against him. Soon enough, both were sound asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a moment to let me know what you thought! Next chapter should be up in a week or so :)


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their perfect evening is interrupted by a simple text, Sherlock and Molly face their first serious hurdle as a couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, please accept my apologies for the delay in this update. I have no excuse but the fact that life simply got in the way - work, kids, other interests. But here I am, back in the saddle, presenting you with another chapter. If there is anyone out there still paying attention to this little fic of mine, please let me know you're still out there with a review!
> 
> Many thanks to Marvel Lit Chick for her exemplary performance of beta duties!
> 
> Disclaimer: Alas, there's been no change. I regretfully still do not own Sherlock et al - the only profit I gain is through my imagination.

Chapter 5

 

“How much time do we have before we leave, again?”  Molly called out from the bedroom.   

Sherlock checked his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes.  “We still have thirty minutes,” he called out, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. 

He picked a piece of lint off his pant leg and leaned over to peer down the hall.  It had taken him half an hour to get ready - and that included his bath - whereas Molly had been at it for over an hour.  

When he’d announced he’d managed to get his hands on some last-minute tickets to see Coriolanus at the Donmar, Molly had been so excited she’d thrown her arms around his neck, nearly strangling him.  Over the course of the following week she’d been unable to contain her excitement, from planning what she was going to wear to fawning over the lead actor - a Tom Middleston, or something to that effect, of whom he’d never heard.  Simply put, she was so happy he was loath to ruin her excitement by being an impatient grump. 

Trying to distract himself, he turned his phone on and scrolled through his screens until he found what he was looking for.  If he was going to have to sit around waiting for Molly, he might as well make good use of his time.  Clicking on Farm Heroes, he was determined to beat that goddamn raccoon if he had to use all of his magic beans. 

Four lives into his game he heard her phone ring.  He groaned and dropped his head in his hand when he heard her answer it.  At this rate, they’d never get to the theatre on time.  The tickets had cost him considerably more than he’d counted on, and the thought of arriving late and only being admitted after the first intermission made him cringe. 

The door to his bedroom opened, followed by the sound of Molly’s footsteps coming down the hall.  He stood up and dropped his phone into his jacket pocket. “Finally!  Who were you speaking… to…”  The words died on his tongue as his eyes took in the sight before him. 

Molly stood in the entrance to the living room, stunning in a fitted royal blue top with a cowl neck and a pair of slim black pants. She'd pinned her hair up, leaving a few strands to frame her face, leaving the slender column of her neck exposed. 

“Well?” she asked.  Clearly uncomfortable under his stare, she began to babble. “It’s not the type of outfit I usually wear, but Mary encouraged me to buy it - pressured me, really - and…” 

“Have you _any_ idea what you're doing to me right now?” Sherlock had never experienced such a visceral reaction to seeing a woman before. His heart beat frantically, his nerves on edge, every cell of his body feeling the pull towards her. _Fuck it_.  He yielded to his desire, closing the gap between them with a few long strides, pressed her up against the wall and crushed his lips to hers. 

Molly squeaked in surprise at his reaction but quickly recovered, melting against him. She opened her mouth to his tongue, moaning when it traced her lips then tangled with her own. 

“I want you so much right now,” he confessed against her skin, his mouth skating down her neck and along her collarbone. “I want to sink my cock in you, feel you come apart beneath me, over and over again…” 

Sherlock began to rock against her - in her four inch heels, she was much closer to his height than usual - his hands wandering to the curve of her ass. 

Then he heard something that made him pause. It sounded a lot like… 

“Why am I hearing John’s voice?” 

“Oh my god!”  Molly exclaimed, her face flush with embarrassment. She showed him her phone.  “John’s on the phone. Harriet’s been admitted to St. Bart’s for alcohol poisoning - they're not sure if she'll pull through this time.”  She paused, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth in a nervous gesture. “He's trying to find someone to look after Rosie and wants to know if we can help if he can’t find anyone else.” 

“Of course we can help.”  There wasn't any question. Sherlock took in the details before him, Molly’s nervousness, the fact that John had called her and not him…  They'd expected him to refuse, to choose a date night over helping his best friend and goddaughter.   

That realization hurt more than he wanted to admit. 

“I'm not that man anymore, Molly,” he announced a bit defensively, straightening his jacket.  “John and Rosie are more important than a night at the theatre.  If he needs our help, we’ll give it.” 

Molly let out a breath, relieved. “Thank you, Sherlock.”  She put the phone back to her ear. “The answer’s yes.  How soon will you know if you need us?” Glancing up at the kitchen clock, she nodded.  “Yes, that’s perfect.  And John, if there’s anything else we can do, please let us know.” 

She ended the call and walked over to the kitchen, leaning a hip against the table.  “John will call in the next ten minutes to let us know whether or not he needs us to look after Rosie.”  Her phone chimed - Sherlock recognized it as an incoming email - and her attention shifted back to the device. 

Sherlock found himself heavily distracted, desire surging through him again. His mind provided him with a clear image of Molly, bent over the table, her pants pushed down to her ankles... 

He stood there in shock, pushing the thought away. What the hell was wrong with him? They’d had sex that morning, and the night before, so it wasn’t like he was deprived - quite the opposite, judging by the many boxes of condoms they'd gone through in the weeks they'd been together.  Why was it, then, that he was unable to control his urges around Molly?  If she knew the thoughts constantly going through his mind, she’d likely slap him - and for good reason. 

Sensing he was focused on her, she looked up.  “What is it?” she asked, setting her phone on the table and walking over to him.   

“I almost took you against a wall,” he whispered, disgusted with himself. 

“I know,” she replied playfully, sliding a painted nail down the front of his shirt. “I was there.” 

“You aren't upset,” he observed, confused. 

“Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with how you behaved; you didn't scare me or hurt me. I found it kind of - ok, _really_ \- sexy, actually.”  Molly gave him the naughtiest smile, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth - this time, it wasn’t a nervous gesture. Hooking her finger in the waistband of his trousers she gave a sharp tug, pulling him off balance and forcing him to take a step closer to her. 

“In that case, I may have a few ideas as to how we can spend the next few moments until John calls back.”  Sherlock pressed himself against her, his hands sliding down to the curve of her ass. 

Molly pulled back, the corner of her lips pulled into a half-smirk.  “Forget it, mister. I spent too much time getting ready to throw it away on a…”  She looked up at the clock. “Five minute snog.” 

Sherlock considered pouting - that usually helped him get his way with Molly - but she was right. The last thing he wanted was to give her a reason to lock herself back in the bathroom.  

Instead, he took her hands in his. “You really do look stunning, Molly. I'll be the envy of every man at the show.”  He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, breathing her in. She'd worn a light floral perfume but beneath it he could still detect her own scent, by now so familiar to him. 

_I love you…_. He wanted to tell her, wanted to let her know how he felt with every fibre of his being, but he hadn't been able to say the words since they'd accidentally tumbled from his lips the first time they'd made love.  Instead, he lay his head in the crook of her shoulder and rested his hands at her hips, fingers splayed. 

As always, Molly somehow knew what was going through his mind.  She allowed him to draw strength from their embrace, stroking one hand up and down the length of his back. 

When her phone rang Sherlock stepped back so she could answer it.  “Hello, John,” she greeted.  “Oh, that’s wonderful.  She’s right around the corner from you, isn’t she?”  She looked up and smiled at Sherlock, giving him a thumbs-up.  “Now you don’t have to worry about travelling across the city and then back to St. Bart’s.”   

John talked for a while, Molly nodding and making small talk.  Sherlock found himself becoming impatient now that the uncertainty of their evening was over - he made a point of tapping at his watch and she nodded in understanding. 

“Well, I'm glad you managed to find a solution closer to home,” she said, slipping her coat on as she juggled her phone. “Please let us know if there's anything we can do to help.  Yes, of course. Take care, John.” 

She hung up and slipped the phone in her purse.  “He managed to reach Angela from the child care centre - she can look after her and she lives just around the corner from him.” 

Sherlock picked up his Belstaff from the back of the chair and made an “after you” gesture. “Let’s go see what sort of Coriolanus old Middleston presents us.” 

Molly preceded him down the stairs, shaking her head. “It's Hiddleston, Sherlock. Tom _Hiddleston_.” 

*** 

“You know, I don’t have much experience in this sort of thing, but I’m pretty sure that when a man asks ‘where would you like to go for dinner’, the average woman wouldn’t choose a fish and chips kiosk.” 

Molly laughed, stretching her legs out as she lay on the couch.  “You should know by now I’m not the average woman,” she replied.  “And anyway, I’ve had my fill of being good and eating salads.  A girl needs her chips every now and then.” 

Sherlock sat at the other end of the sofa with her feet on his lap. “We could have taken a taxi back earlier, Molly,” he chided, picking one sore foot up and massaging it.   

“I know, but it was the first evening where it was warm enough to be outside after dark. Anyway, my feet didn't really start bothering me until we were at Blackfriars, and you flagged a taxi right away.”

She sighed contentedly, closing her eyes and letting herself sink even deeper into the old couch.  “I still can't believe how good the play was - I know I've been nattering on about it since we stepped out of the Donmar, but it's the best rendition of Shakespeare I've ever seen.” 

Molly _had_ been going on about it, and they'd discussed the play nonstop as they strolled along the banks of the Thames eating their fish and chips. He'd already agreed with her - many times over - so he simply nodded. “I'm just glad I was there to see it myself, otherwise I would have doubted your glowing review had as much to do with the quality of the play as with you fancying its lead actor.” 

She laughed. “Yes, Hiddleston is rather dashing.” 

They both retreated to a comfortable silence, Sherlock’s thoughts turning to how content he was in a relationship, more so than he ever imagined he could be. He'd always wondered - often out loud - how the same people could tolerate being in each other's presence day in and day out.  But he and Molly had seen each other nearly every day for weeks, yet he still looked forward to her company.   

Molly made even the mundane tolerable. Whereas spending a Friday night sitting around quietly would have had him shooting the walls out of boredom a year ago, he was now quite content to sit on his couch and massage his girlfriend’s feet and listen to the hum of the traffic coming through the open window. 

The old Sherlock would have turned the gun on himself, never mind the walls, begging for something exciting to happen. 

Just then, the silence of the room was broken by the throaty sound of a woman’s moan. 

_Not the excitement I was banking on_ , he thought, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. 

Molly cracked an eye open, then two. “What was that?” she asked, looking at him with a confused frown. 

“What was what?” Sherlock tried to appear nonchalant, wishing he could surreptitiously shove his phone between the sofa cushions.   

“That noise your phone made.  That's the same noise it made that Christmas a few years ago.” 

“Oh, that?”  He waved his hand around as if shooing a fly.  “It was nothing.” 

Molly pulled her feet back to her and sat up straight. “That wasn't ‘nothing’; it was a text alert, wasn’t it?” 

Sherlock’s eyes darted to his phone to see whether she could see its display - how would she know it's a text alert?  “Of course not. I've already told you, it's nothing.” 

“You're a terrible liar, Sherlock. Why won’t you just tell me the truth?” 

He could tell she was upset, and for some unknown reason he in turn became agitated. “I'm not lying. It really _is_ nothing,” he replied sharply. 

“If it's nothing,” she countered, eyes narrowed, not backing down, “then you should be able to tell me about it. But you aren't, which means it's not ‘nothing’.” 

“Goddamn it!” He growled. “Why can't you just let it drop?” 

Tears pooled in her eyes, and Sherlock immediately realized he'd seriously mishandled the situation. 

“Because people who care for each other don't hold secrets,” she bit back, standing up and rushing away. He didn't even have time to call out to her before she'd locked herself in the bathroom. 

He sighed and sank back into the couch when he heard her crying. He wasn't equipped for dealing with crying women, especially when he was the cause of their grief. The only person who could have conceivably helped him - John - was very unavailable. Lestrade didn't know about his history with The Woman, and Mycroft was the last person to turn to for matters of sentimentality. Try as he might he couldn't think of anyone else he could turn to for... 

“Well, you've gone and cocked that one up, haven't you?” 

Sherlock's eyes shot up to John’s chair where Mary Watson sat, a wide grin plastered on her face. 

“What… how…”  Had he somehow been exposed to a hallucinogenic drug? 

Apparition-Mary rolled her eyes. “No, no drugs. Not this time, at least.”  She stood up, pressed the creases out of her pants with the palms of her hands, and walked over to the mantle. Spotting the frame that held a photograph of Rosie, she reached out to it, tracing her daughter's chubby cheeks, before pulling her hand back sharply. She turned around to face him, her expression schooled. “I was hoping you’d come to your mind palace but when it became apparent you weren't planning to, I came out to you instead.” 

“No one’s ever done that before,” Sherlock countered, still very much concerned for his mental stability. 

“No one’s ever been me before,” she replied, one eyebrow raised. “Now, about your cock up.  Why is Molly in the bathroom?” 

“Because she felt like taking a bath.  What do _you_ think?” 

“I'm a figment of your imagination. Do you really want to waste precious time being lippy with me?” 

“No,” he conceded, ignoring the fact he was somehow chastising himself for being impertinent with himself. Maybe the drug theory wasn't that implausible after all…

“Fine. She's in the bathroom because she's upset.” 

“And why is she upset?”  Apparition-Mary had seated herself back in John’s chair, leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, her sharp gaze focused directly on him.   

Sherlock cursed his photographic memory. If only he'd remembered the shape of her face wrong, or forgotten that the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, this encounter wouldn't feel so damn real.  He tore his gaze from her, focusing on a point over her shoulder instead. “Because I yelled at her.” 

“Wrong. Try again.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips and thought back to their argument, recalling what had been said. “Because I lied to her?” 

Apparition-Mary sighed and stood back up. “For a brilliant man, you really can be obtuse.  Stop thinking about the words. What was it about your exchange that would have upset her?” 

Bristling at being called obtuse, Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at the apparition.   

And then it came to him. He finally understood why Molly was upset. “I wasn't honest with her, therefore… she thinks I'm hiding something from her.  And the suggestive sound of the text would lead her - quite logically - to think it's a woman.”  He sat up straight, an ill feeling washing over him. “She thinks I'm involved with another woman.” 

“Bingo!  And there is another woman, sort of.  Maybe you should talk to Molly about “The Woman”; you never know, it might help you finally sort it all out.  That really is a mess, by the way.  I've been in there,” she pointed to his head, “so I know.” 

He stood up and walked to the kitchen, where he had a better view of the hallway. “I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?” 

Apparition-Mary was suddenly beside him, her gaze also focused on the bathroom door. “Not if you want this to work, no.” She turned to him, as clear as if she’d been real.  “What you have with Molly - it’s the best thing that ever happened to you, Sherlock.   _She’s_ the best thing that ever happened to you.  You’re going to make mistakes.  We all do.  What matters is being honest with her and telling her the truth.” 

“I’m sorry,” he told her, his vision blurring with unshed tears.  “So sorry, Mary.” 

Apparition-Mary smiled at him, white teeth gleaming, her own eyes brimming with tears.  “I’m not the one you need to apologize to, Sherlock.  You’ve already earned my forgiveness.”  She reached up and cupped his cheek and disappeared, leaving him alone in the living room. 

Sherlock peered down the hall and knew Mary was right.  If his and Molly’s relationship was to be successful they couldn't have any secrets, and that meant telling her about The Woman.  He took a deep breath and walked down the hall, ready to sort Irene Adler out once and for all. 

He walked over to the bathroom door and, leaning against it, slid down until he was seated, its hard, cool surface grounding him.  He closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths until he felt ready to start. 

No sound came from the bathroom, but he knew Molly was listening, waiting for him to speak, to explain, to trust her with this part of his life which he'd kept locked away.  Aside from a cursory gloss-over in a conversation with John, he'd never discussed his relationship with The Woman with anyone - hell, he'd hardly allowed himself to think too much about her. 

“Her name is Irene Adler,” he began, the words strange on his tongue. It had been years since he'd spoken her actual name, rather than The Woman, or simply _her_.  “I first met her about six years ago when Mycroft brought me in - quite against my will, might I add - to investigate a sensitive case involving a member of the royal family and a dominatrix. 

“The dominatrix was, of course, Adler. Right from the start, she intrigued me. She wasn't impressed or intimidated by my intellect like everyone else. I discovered all too soon this was because her mind works like mine - she observes and deduces, coolly calculates without relying on sentiment. However she’s equally cunning when it comes to human nature; obviously, this is an advantage she has over me.”

He smiled when he heard a snort come from the other side of the door. “All right, it's an advantage _everyone_ has over me, but she excels in it. Her specialty is subterfuge - she deals in lies and secrets. The first time we met, she greeted me in the nude. I was unable to deduce anything about her, aside from the fact that she was a beautiful woman.” 

The door opened suddenly and Sherlock fell back, catching his balance before finding himself flat on the bathroom floor. 

Molly was on her knees, sitting back on her heels. Her face still showed traces of crying, her makeup smudged where she'd wiped at her tears, her nose and eyes red.  Her gaze, however, was sharp as she stared at Sherlock. “The woman in the morgue - at Christmas - all those years ago, the one you identified despite her face being unrecognizable…” 

He nodded, turning to lean back against the door jamb so he could face her. His fingers itched to reach out to her, to wipe the remaining tears from her cheeks, hold her to him and tell her he was sorry for not being open and honest and trusting. For failing yet again at their relationship. 

“Yes, that's how I knew she wasn't Irene.” 

“Did you… Have you ever slept with her?” 

“Yes.”  Honesty came easier now that he was faced with the consequences of holding back. “In Karachi. She'd been kidnapped by Islamic extremists and they were about to execute her. I…”. He searched for words, never truly understanding his own motives for his actions. “I had to save her. I couldn't let her die at the hands of such ignorance. When we stopped running, when we finally found a safe place to stay, the adrenaline of survival - of being alive - was still coursing through us. Irene was my first. I haven't seen her since, although she sends me a text every now and then. That’s what you heard tonight - a text message from her.  Sometimes she asks me to join her, wherever she is - I don’t reply to those - but mostly she writes to commiserate about the stupidity of people she’s working for.” 

He held out his hand and, to his great relief, she accepted it and allowed herself to be pulled onto his lap.   

“Do you love her?” 

Sherlock cupped her cheeks, staring into her eyes unflinchingly.  “I love _you_ , Molly Hooper.  Not Irene Adler, not any other woman but you.”   He took her hands in his, holding them cupped palms upwards. “In these strong, capable hands of yours, you hold my heart and my soul.” 

Molly stared back in shock at his admission, tears pooling in her eyes, and sniffled. 

“I do hope those are tears of joy, otherwise I may have to revisit my relationship strategy.” 

She laughed, wiping her cheeks. “Yes, they're happy tears. “ 

“Good,” he replied, relieved he hadn't cocked it up again. “I really am sorry about this evening, Molly.  And I’m sorry about all the situations I’ve caused where I’ve had to apologise to you. I promise to be more honest and open with you.” 

“And I promise to be more patient,” she replied, “without running off in tears every time we have a disagreement.” 

She leaned in and pressed her lips to his for a chaste kiss before nestling against him.  Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, feeling the tattoo of her heartbeat against his skin, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. They'd survived their first real fight and, from what he could tell, had both learned from it.  He was trying to think of what he should say next when she spoke up.   

“So… This dominatrix… did she teach you anything?”  She didn't move from her position, but he felt the fingers of her left hand drawing imaginary circles on his side, making their way down to find a sliver of skin between his pants and shirt.   

“Teach me anything?” Then the meaning of what she meant hit him. “Ah… I'm afraid not. Our encounter was rather, I think the popular term is, vanilla.” 

“Mmm…” she replied, her lips ghosting across his neck.  “Pity.” 

Sherlock’s pulse quickened, his blood flowing south.  “Molly, I don’t want to read falsely into your intentions, so I’ll ask:  am I correct in deducing that you’re aroused?” 

She sat back to face him, not quite successfully hiding a grin.  “Mr. Holmes,” she teased. “How very observant of you.  You really should consider being a detective.” 

Sherlock laughed - which he found much more enjoyable than arguing or apologising - and pressed his lips to hers. “Is there anything she _should_ have taught me?” he asked, curious as to where this conversation was heading. 

“I don't know,” she hedged. “Isn't there anything you've been curious to try out that we haven't done?  Something a little… different?” 

Sherlock hesitated. There _was_ a scenario that had been popping up with increasing frequency in his fantasies, but he didn't know how to talk to Molly about it. Despite her openness, her invitation to share, part of him still believed she'd be affronted by what had been going through his mind.   _But you've made a promise to be more honest_ , he reminded himself, _and she certainly welcomed your attentions earlier this evening._  

With these thoughts in mind he leaned forward, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear. “I've imagined taking you from behind,” he confessed, his voice roughened with desire. 

Molly took in a sharp breath and ground herself down onto his growing erection, her hands clutching at his arms. “Sherlock Holmes,” she purred, pulling back to look at him, her eyes dancing with mischief.  “What other naughty fantasies do you have locked up in that head of yours?” 

Question was, what naughty fantasies _didn't_ he have in his head?  Sherlock felt like he'd reverted back to adolescence; so much of his free time was spent thinking of Molly, what they'd done, and what they could do.  He'd been reticent to voice any of them for fear he might come across as dissatisfied with their sex life. 

Which he wasn't, by any means. Molly had matched him in both appetite and enthusiasm and, judging by her reaction to his confession, was eager to expand the horizons of their relationship. 

She must have taken his silence as hesitation, because her face softened as her fingers played with the curls at the base of his neck. “You don't have to…” 

“The kitchen table,” he whispered, interrupting her, “you, leaning over it, your knickers and trousers down at your ankles. You, sitting in my chair, wearing nothing but my coat, touching yourself while I watch.”  Now that he'd started he found it impossible to stop. “Riding me in the bathtub, your breasts glistening in the candlelight.  Working together at the lab, late at night - those stools would be just the right height…” 

He could have gone on, revealing the details of each remaining fantasy one by one, but Molly quieted him with her lips. Her kiss was hungry and demanding, and Sherlock matched her fervour. “Up,” he muttered. “The bathroom floor is definitely _not_ on my list.” 

She nodded and got up without offering any witty banter, eagerly reprising their embrace when Sherlock stood.  They moved beside the door, where he pressed her up against the wall again - only this time there wasn't a friend in need on the phone or an impending date. 

Every cell in his body screamed for her, a clarion call he eagerly answered.  Grateful they'd changed into more comfortable clothing earlier, he began to tug at her yoga pants and underwear, relieved when she reciprocated.  They both wriggled out of their remaining clothes, tossing them all aside, until there were no barriers separating them. 

Deciding to try out another fantasy, Sherlock slid his hands up Molly’s thighs and under her rear, lifting her off the ground.  Sheathing himself into her, he began to move, encouraged by the breathless moans that fanned against the skin of his neck.  “Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” she whispered, holding on tight, her legs wrapped around his narrow waist. 

Although she was diminutive, the awkwardness of the position made it hard for him to keep up the momentum.  Sherlock strained to hold her in position, but she kept slipping downward; he finally gave up and pulled out, placing her back on her feet.  “They make this look easier in the movies,” he admitted, trying to inject a bit of levity to an embarrassing situation. 

Molly opened her mouth to respond but squealed instead when Sherlock scooped her up in his arms.  “Hold on,” he warned, carrying her the few steps to his bedroom where he gently set her down on his bed.  He turned on his bedside lamp and knelt at her sides, holding himself up above her.  “Back in bed again.  After all that talk I can't help but feel like we're right back where we started.” 

Molly looked up at him, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her skin aglow with the warm light of the incandescent bulb. “Nonsense,” she tutted. “You've put us exactly where we need to be.  Now be a good boy and sit up so I have a bit more room.” 

Sherlock did as she bade, curious as to what plans she had in mind.  Molly's confidence in contrast to his uncertainty reminded him of another woman who'd shown as much understanding in a similar situation. 

Irene - she'd simply been Irene that night, her name a breathless whisper, as they came together in the quiet of a hot and humid night.  Surprisingly gentle with him, she had guided him patiently through an awkward - and very embarrassing - first time. After that, he hadn't been satisfied until his own name was a prayer on her lips. 

Sherlock felt the bed shift and turned his attention back outward. He looked over at Molly, who appeared to be searching for something underneath her pillow.  His gaze was drawn to the soft feminine curves of her backside, which was waving enticingly as she moved around.  He reached out and dragged a finger along the small of her back, the contact with her soft skin setting his nerves on fire. 

“Molly, dear,” he implored, “can I ask that you accomplish whatever it is you're doing sooner rather than later?  The view is proving to be a difficult temptation to resist.” 

She paused, then, and looked back at him, still holding herself up on all fours.  “What if this isn't a temptation I want you to resist?” she offered.  Breathlessly, she added “You're not the only one with fantasies, Sherlock.” 

Unable to form a coherent thought Sherlock stared at Molly, stunned. “I believe that statement may have short-circuited my brain,” he declared. 

One corner of her lips pulled up into a devious smile as she looked back at him.  “It’s not really your brain that we need right now.” 

Deciding to act before the rest of his faculties shut down, Sherlock entered her slowly, relishing the new position.  When he was fully sheathed he leaned forward, holding himself up on one arm, and placed a kiss between her shoulder blades.  “Who would ever have thought that my sweet, stammering pathologist had such a naughty streak?” 

Molly’s only response was a low “ _ohhh…_ ” as he began to move, slowly and deeply, and he savoured each sound he coaxed out of her.  She pressed back against him, meeting his thrusts and squeezing her internal muscles every time he pulled back. 

His mind was blissfully at rest, registering only the sensations of his and Molly's coupling. He lost himself in the softness of her skin and the moist heat of her sex, her gentle moans driving him closer to the edge.   

When he finally felt his impending climax, Sherlock leaned forward again, moulding himself to Molly’s back.  He swept her hair to one side, sliding his lips across her shoulder, up the delicate column of her neck, alighting at the shell of her ear.  His free hand wandered down her stomach and lower, where it found the sensitive bundle of nerves that lay between her legs.  He teased it, using the juices from their union to circle around it.  “Come for me, Molly,” he implored, his own body shaking from staving off his release.   

She did, finally, and he followed her, a silent gasp caught in his throat as he came.  They remained in place afterwards, both catching their breaths, until Sherlock straightened up and slid out of her.  Molly turned over, laying on her back, her chest still heaving as her pulse struggled to return to normal.  “Oh…” she said.  “That was … oh my.” 

“Yes, and it was also unwise,” Sherlock remarked.  “We appear to have forgotten to use a condom.”  A sliver of panic shot through him at their gaffe. 

Molly’s eyes widened in realisation and she sat straight up in a manner that would have been comical if not for the seriousness of the situation.  “Shit.”  She paused, appearing to be calculating something in her head.  “We should be good, though.  My period ended not that long ago - I won’t have ovulated yet.”  She shifted, and made a face.  “I forgot how messy this can be without condoms.  Can you pass me the tissues?” 

Sherlock reached over and handed the box to her, waiting his turn before cleaning himself off, too.  He then followed Molly under the covers, lying on his side and pulling her into an embrace.  “I love you,” he stated, kissing the top of her head.  Every time he uttered those three words, it became easier - easier to share his feelings, easier to let her know what she meant to him, and easier for him to realise how deluded he was to question the power of love. 

“Are you going to tell Irene about us?”  Molly asked tentatively, her head resting against his chest. 

“I suppose I should - maybe then she’ll stop texting me every time she’s in town,” he replied.  He pulled back and looked down at her, his lips quirking into a smile.  “And I think I have an idea how…” 

*** 

_Fifteen minutes later, at a hotel somewhere in London_  

Irene Adler stepped out of the bathroom, steam swirling around her.  After a long day of putting up with the platitudes of imbeciles, nothing beat the therapeutic effects of a hot bath and two fingers of a high quality single malt. 

What she could never allow herself to forget, though, was that the very imbeciles who drove her to drink were also the ones who funded her lavish lifestyle.  She walked over to the ridiculously lavish settee and fell back into it, pulling her legs underneath her. Closing her eyes, she leaned back, snuggling deeper into the lush bathrobe that had come with the room, when the sound of a violin interrupted the silence.

Sitting up suddenly, she placed her tumbler of scotch down on the coffee table and reached for her phone.  She’d texted Sherlock a few hours prior purely out of habit - of course, the consulting detective never replied to her invitations.   

Never until now, that was.  She felt a frisson of excitement as she clicked on the text - perhaps he was finally game for a visit?  She was tired after a long day, but not too tired to entertain her favourite detective. 

When she read the text, however, she let out a throaty laugh.  “Damn you,” she muttered, smiling despite having been beaten once again by the infamous Sherlock Holmes. 

The text read: 

_Dear Miss Adler, I regret I must decline your invitation - and all those henceforth - as I've come down with a severe case of sentiment. I hope this doesn’t result in any hard feelings and expect you will abide by my wishes of no longer contacting me with requests of “hooking up”.  - SH_  

Accompanying the text was a photograph of two pairs of legs, entwined in the messy bedclothes of Sherlock’s bed. 

A second text arrived almost immediately afterwards: 

_P.S. - I have been told you can still contact me to commiserate about the idiocy of the general public_  

Irene turned her phone off and picked her tumbler back up.  Leaning against the back of the settee, she stared out the window at the cityscape beyond.  “Sherlock Holmes,” she murmured, “what woman has succeeded where none other has ever managed?  She must be special.”   _Very special indeed_.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly rely on their friends and family to help them navigate a crisis. This is uncharted territory for the detective - how will he deal with it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter deals with a sensitive topic. In order to avoid spoilers, I’ve added an author’s note at the end of this chapter revealing what the topic is.
> 
> So glad to be back at it after a very busy summer! I do apologise for the long hiatus in posting and will do my best to get back to a more regular schedule :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this story – I’m simply borrowing them for a spot of fun.
> 
> Kudos: Thanks to Marvel Lit Chick for her beta support, and thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter - your words mean so much to me!

“Sherlock… _Sherlock!_ ” 

Sherlock snapped to attention, realizing he'd been lost in his thoughts.  He took note of his surroundings, surprised to see he was in the lobby of New Scotland Yard.  He and John had gone in to leave the final details on a case for Greg - the DI had been away, following up on leads for a different investigation - but he had no recollection of leaving the paperwork with the clerk or making his way towards the exit. 

John pursed his lips in frustration. “Have you heard _anything_ I've said?” 

“No,” the consulting detective admitted, still distracted by his current location. _Far corner of the room is partly cast in shadows, Donovan and Anderson are absent - most likely another lunchtime rendez-vous (a ‘nooner’, Molly had called it?), the DHL delivery woman is pulling up out front…_ It all pointed to just after noon, but Sherlock couldn’t remember how long he and John had been at NSY - he’d completely lost his sense of time. 

Instead of being irritated by being ignored, John seemed concerned. "Are you ok?" he asked quietly, tilting his head to the side. 

"I..."  Sherlock looked around at the hustle and bustle of the police headquarters, and hesitated. "Perhaps we can go where we've a bit more privacy."

"Sure," his friend replied, still wary. "I overheard some of the officers talking about a new food truck out front - something Asian, I think. We can grab some and find ourselves a bench." 

They signed themselves out and found the food truck stationed conveniently along Victoria Embankment.  “Vietnamese,” John commented, whistling under his breath.  “No wonder even Donovan was excited.” 

Sherlock chuckled as he followed his friend down the few steps to the small queue that had lined up at the front of “Just Pho You”.  Having just wrapped up a case - it had been an eight, enough to warrant going without sleep or food for a few days despite Molly’s insistence otherwise - he found he was ravenous.  Perhaps a full stomach would help him sort through the thoughts that were swirling around in his head. 

Meals in hand, they walked next door to the Ministry of Defense building and found themselves an empty bench.  Both men ate in silence, watching people and cars go by.  The sky was a flawless blue, the air warm, dappled sunlight reaching them through the leaves of the London plane trees. 

Sherlock placed his chopsticks in his empty food container and set it on the ground beside him.  He dragged his hand over his face, feeling the stubble which had built up over the last few days.  Leaning back against the hard slats of the bench he let out a weary sigh. “I think Molly’s pregnant.”   

Saying the words out loud, no matter how many times he'd mulled them over in his head, gave them a realness that shocked him. 

“Come again?”  John cocked his head almost comically, leaning forward. “Because it sounded like you said ‘Molly's pregnant’.” 

“That’s because it’s precisely what I said,” Sherlock replied drily, not in a mood for pleasantries. 

John replaced the lid on his bowl and set it at his feet carefully.  He turned to look at Sherlock, his gaze level and serious.  “What makes you think she might be pregnant?” he asked. 

“One,” the detective began, ticking off his index finger. “Every night for the past week and a half, she’s been in bed and dead to the world by seven thirty at the latest - can’t even keep her eyes open to watch her shows.” 

“How can you know that? You haven't even been home most evenings this past week.” 

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied, feeling only marginally guilty about asking his landlady to check in on Molly in his absence. 

“Maybe she’s just working hard,” John countered logically.  “I know they’re down one pathologist in the department and she’s been trying to keep things from backing up.” 

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge the counter argument; instead he pressed his middle finger down to join the first.  “Two:  Molly’s always been a zealot about eating breakfast.  She gives me enough grief about it - good start to the day, and all that rot.  The past week and a half, she hasn’t even been able to look at a piece of toast in the morning without turning green.” 

“Mrs. Hudson again?”  At Sherlock’s nod, John continued. “Could be a result of her being overworked and overtired.”  Solid reasoning, but there was less conviction in his voice this time. 

Another finger. “Three:  Her breasts are sensitive.” 

“How in the world have you had time to find _that_ out in the last week?” John asked incredulously.  “In between all the chasing down and investigating, you’ve hardly had time to run home and change, never mind have sex.” 

Sherlock felt his cheeks redden.  “There’s a small room with a cot off to the side of the lab at St. Bart’s,” he admitted.  “Molly and I sometimes use it for… recreational purposes… when I’m in the middle of an investigation. Contrary to what I've always believed, it's not distracting at all - it actually helps clear my mind…” 

His friend laughed out loud and shook his head.  “Oh my god.  Leave it up to you two to have it off just a few feet from some poor soul’s liver.  Anyway, those are valid arguments but not incontrovertible.  She could still just be coming down with something.”   

One last finger. “Four:  I found a pregnancy test stick at the bottom of the rubbish bin in the bathroom when I was searching for a cufflink I dropped.” 

“All right, then,” John conceded.  “It’s a serious possibility.”  He sat up straight again, frowning.  “Wait a minute - haven’t you been using any protection?  I figure Molly’d be on the pill or something.” 

“Of course we use protection,” Sherlock retorted defensively. “We’re not _entirely_ careless. It was just one time, where we got rather passionate and neither of us had the presence of mind for much of anything, never mind condoms.”  He sank forward, dropping his head in his hands.  He waited, expecting his friend to needle him about being passionate - understandably a very typically _un_ -Sherlock Holmes state of being. 

Instead he was met with silence.  When he looked back up, his friend was gazing at him with an inscrutable look on his face.  John had seen him at his best, and at his very worst, and had stuck by him in a way only family could. 

“How do _you_ feel about it?” John asked, finally. 

“Bloody frightened,” he admitted in brutal honesty.  “I’ve just gotten used to the idea of being in a relationship.  I love Molly, and if she _is_ pregnant and wants to keep it, I’m not going anywhere.  But I’m scared.  What sort of father would I be?” he let out a derisive laugh, shaking his head.  “I’d be a terrible father…” 

“Bullshit.”  At Sherlock’s surprised look, his friend continued.  “You’d make a great dad.  Have you ever _seen_ yourself with Rosie?  When you’re with her, your entire world is focused on her.  Molly can’t even get near her, not even to feed her or change her nappies.  And if it were your _own_ flesh and blood you held in your arms? What do you think you'd be like then?” 

He let the question hang, having put his point across to his satisfaction.  The siren of a police car pierced the air, and both men grew quiet as they watched it turn into New Scotland Yard. 

“Have you talked to Molly about it?” 

Sherlock sighed.  “No.” 

“Unbelievable,” the other man countered, rolling his eyes.  “You do realize she's probably worrying herself sick about how she's going to break the news to you.  Right now, with everything going on, she needs you - she needs your support, your understanding, your…” 

John stopped mid-sentence, pulling his phone from his coat pocket.  “Hold on,” he said, frowning.  “It’s Lestrade.” 

“Hey Greg.  What’s up?” he answered.  “Yeah, he’s still with me. Why?”  His face grew ashen as the other man spoke, and he brought his gaze up to meet Sherlock’s. Something was wrong.   _Very_ wrong. 

“We’re on our way.  Can you stay with her until we get there?  All right.  We’ll be there as soon as possible.  Thanks, mate.” 

He disconnected and stared at his phone for a moment before looking at Sherlock.  “It’s Molly.  She was taken to the A&E at the Royal London.” 

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded, gripped suddenly by icy tendrils of fear. “Did he say what's wrong?” 

“She fainted. Loss of blood.” John put his hands up, halting further questions. “I don't know any more than that.” 

“Why did he call you?” Sherlock demanded, storming off towards the police station. “Why didn't he call me?” 

He was stopped by a firm grip on his elbow.  John redirected him towards the road, flagging the first cab he saw. “Because he knew he'd be calling the one with a clearer head.”  More gently, he added “Let me worry about getting us to Molly. You worry about taking care of her once we’re there.” 

When they hopped in the back of the taxi the familiar sight of Khalid, one of their regular cabbies, gave him hope. 

The driver looked at them in his rear mirror, his polite mask morphing into a wide smile. “Sherlock, John!  Off on another adventure, my friends?”  At the sombre look on both men's faces, his smile faded and he turned in his seat to face them. “What is wrong?” 

“Molly.”  It was only one word, but the distressed tone of Sherlock’s voice told the whole story.   

“Which hospital?” the cabbie asked, reaching over to his smartphone which doubled as a navigation tool. 

“Royal London. At the A&E,” John instructed. 

Khalid punched the destination into the phone and pulled out into heavy traffic. “I will have you there in no time, my friends. No need to worry.” 

True to his word, the cabbie turned a 20 minute drive into just over 12 minutes, avoiding the worst of traffic and breaking a few laws as he did so.  John paid the fare and turned to join Sherlock as he made his way towards the automatic sliding doors. 

Inside the hospital they were met with chaos.  The A&E was standing room only, with the sick and the injured taking up every chair and available space. 

John looked around, trying to assess the situation.  “Let’s see if I can't find someone to help us out.” 

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.  He could already feel his stress level climbing - he needed to find Molly _now_.  “Please do, otherwise I may end up saying something you'll regret.” 

His friend nodded in understanding.  “Come on,” he directed, leading Sherlock through a mess of legs, strollers and canes.   

They reached an older nurse who was balancing a stack of vomit pans.  “Excuse me, we need to locate someone who was admitted about an hour ago.  Her name is…” 

The woman interrupted him, an apologetic look on her face.  “I’m sorry, lads, I need to hand these out before we have an even bigger mess on our hands.”  She nodded towards a counter with a lineup.  “You’ll need to ask her.  She’ll tell you where your friend is.” 

The two men watched her hurry off to a group of people who looked like their need for a vomit pan was imminent.   

“I’m going to try calling Lestrade,” John suggested, correctly assuming Sherlock had no patience for wasting time in a lineup.  “I’m sure he can just tell us where they are.” 

He pulled his phone out but paused when someone called his name. “John?” 

Sherlock turned around and saw a nurse rushing towards them. Despite her harried appearance, she didn't appear unkind. Quite the contrary, her eyes were warm and compassionate. 

“Susan,” the doctor exclaimed, letting out a breath of relief.  “Are you ever a sight for sore eyes.”  He waved at the pandemonium surrounding them.  “What on earth is going on?  It’s Tuesday afternoon - it’s like a war zone in here.” 

The nurse shrugged.  “Among many other things, two multiple-vehicle accidents, one group of schoolchildren who may have been bitten by a rabid fox and a busload of elderly tourists with food poisoning.” 

“Yes, yes, this is all very fascinating,” Sherlock interjected, ignoring the dirty look John threw his way. “We’re looking for Molly Hooper.  Can you help us find her?” 

Susan's face slipped into a mask of irritation as she turned towards the consulting detective. “Mr. Holmes,” she deadpanned. “Polite as always, I see.” 

He frowned, looking more closely at her.  Suddenly, she seemed familiar. “Have we met before?” he asked, ignoring her jibe. When she opened her mouth to answer he threw his hand up, effectively interrupting her. “You worked at St. Bart’s.  Yes - you routinely had lunch with Molly.” 

“Routinely tried to, you mean.  Most of the time you'd show up and pull her back to the morgue for one of your oddball requests as if her time didn’t matter to you.” She narrowed her eyes and took a step closer, invading his personal space. “If you're here to harass that poor girl…” 

“I'm here because I care deeply for Molly,” he stated bluntly. “Now, if it's all the same to you could you take me to her?   _Please_.” 

The sincerity of his plea must have come through in his voice because her face softened and she nodded. “As you can see,” she said, turning to lead them deeper into the hospital, “we needed all of our beds in the A&E. I was able to find Molly an available bed in our short stay surgery ward.” 

She led them onto an elevator. On the brief ascent to their destination, John and Susan stood in one corner, chatting quietly, apparently catching up.  Sherlock stood slightly apart from them, flexing his hands into fists as he watched the numbers above the door climb slowly.  He rocked from his heels to the tips of his toes and back, his nerves singing with kinetic energy, as each second stretched into a century.  “Come on, damn it,” he growled. 

“Do you know why Molly was admitted?” Susan asked more loudly, her question directed at both men. 

“Hemorrhage,” Sherlock relayed with no inflection, still staring at the doors.  He didn’t want to discuss what most likely happened to Molly with a stranger.  Despite the childish hope that flared within him, he knew what it all meant. 

The doors finally opened and Sherlock stepped out, taking a deep breath, his eyes scanning his surroundings as if he could deduce which room was Molly’s with a simple glance.   _Not the one with the ‘Get Well’ balloons, nor the one with half the country - don’t they have a limit on visitors?!_  

“Mr. Holmes,” Susan spoke up.  When he didn’t respond - _Damn it, which room is it?_ \- the nurse tried again.  “ _Sherlock_.” 

“What?” he answered irritably, turning to face her. 

“Do you know the cause of her hemorrhage?”   

He was relieved to see not pity in her eyes, but instead a quiet understanding.  His shoulders slumped and he nodded.  “Miscarriage, likely.” 

Susan nodded. “I want you to understand that physically, she’ll be fine in a few days - the pregnancy was still in the first trimester and won't be very hard on her system.  Psychologically, though, it may take her longer to heal.  Each woman handles a miscarriage differently.  You'll need to be strong for her.” 

Sherlock watched her take off down the hallway, but didn't follow immediately. “Molly's a strong woman,” he affirmed, to no one in particular. 

John placed a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, she is. But she's also been in love with you for a long time, mate. Having your child is probably a dream she's had for years, and now it's over almost as soon as it started.  That's going to be hard on her.” 

He hadn't considered that, he realized sourly. In actuality, Molly’s state of mind had figured very little in his thoughts on her possible pregnancy. Of course, he'd imagined how beautiful she would be carrying his child, but in all his musings he hadn't spared a moment’s thought to the burden she was shouldering on her own.  She wouldn't have known that, aside from the initial shock, he'd warmed up to the idea of fatherhood. She wouldn't have known that, as she worried about how to break the news, he was trying to find a way to cross that same bridge.  

She wouldn't have known that she needn't be alone in this. 

They started to walk, catching up to Susan as she waited outside a door.  Sherlock peered in and saw Greg Lestrade sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, his eyes on his phone.   

Sherlock took a few steps in, leaving John and Susan in the hallway to further discuss the particulars of Molly’s file with the nurse in charge. She appeared to be sleeping, judging by the even rise and fall of her chest under the many blankets which had been draped over her. 

Lestrade looked up, taking notice of his presence. He frowned, looking at his watch. “I don't want to ask how you got here so fast, do I?” 

“Not particularly, no,” Sherlock replied honestly. He turned his gaze once more to Molly, although he continued to address the detective. “What happened?” 

The other man stood and stretched a kink out of his back, walking over to him. “We were in the lab discussing her findings for the Knowlton case when she went really pale all of a sudden. I asked her if she was okay and she said yeah, she was just feeling a bit dizzy. Didn't have breakfast, she told me.” He reached behind him to rub at his neck with one hand. “I was gonna grab her a stool to sit on when her eyes rolled in the back of her head and she just went limp. Managed to catch her, and I carried her to that room with the cot - you know, that one off the south wall.” 

Sherlock nodded in understanding when the other man paused, waiting to make sure he was following. 

“When I laid her down, that's when I noticed she was bleeding - she'd bled right through her trousers.  So I called 999.” He paused, his face grim. “Look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I don't know if the baby was intentional or not, but it's a rotten situation no matter what.” 

“Thanks.  It wasn't intentional but,” Sherlock added, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “it wouldn't have been unwelcome.” 

Greg nodded. His smile softened as he looked past Sherlock to the bed. 

Sherlock turned around and saw that Molly was now awake, quietly watching them. 

“I'm going to give you two a bit of privacy,” Lestrade said, grabbing his suit jacket and phone from the chair. He walked over to the far side of the bed to give Molly a kiss on the forehead. 

“Thanks,” she whispered, giving him a watery smile. 

“No worries,” he responded. He straightened up and walked to the doorway.  “You two let me know if you need anything.” 

Once they were alone, Sherlock looked over at Molly and realized he wasn't sure what to say or how to act. He’d made it a habit of saying the wrong thing at the worst possible time with Molly, and the last thing he wanted to do was make things worse.  As someone who’d always been so confident in himself, it was frustrating to feel useless. 

“I'm sorry,” she said, finally breaking the silence.  “So, so sorry…”   

“Oh, Molly.” The melancholy tone of her apology compelled his feet to finally move, a few long strides taking him to her side. He took her hand in his, pressing a kiss on her knuckles. “Whatever for?” 

“For not telling you. I meant to, _wanted_ to, but I didn't know how you’d react.”   

“I’d figured it out,” he confessed. “About a week and a half ago.  I wasn't sure at first, but all the signs were there, and then I didn't know when or how to bring it up.”  He leaned forward and took her in his arms as best he could over the side of the bed.  “I’m sorry, too, Molly.  Sorry you’ve carried this burden on your own.” 

She cried as Sherlock held her, her small frame wracked with sobs.  His heart was heavy with grief for her loss - for _their_ loss.  He refrained from reassuring her with empty platitudes, respecting her too much to lie to her.  Of course it wasn’t okay and she sure as hell wouldn’t feel better after a good night’s sleep.  Only time would help her deal with her sorrow. 

He felt her take a few deep, long breaths, her crying subsiding.  “Thank you,” she said, moving to lie back against her pillow.  She wiped self-consciously at her face.  “I must be a mess.” 

“You’re beautiful, as always,” he assured her sincerely.   

She smiled at him through the tears that still clung to her eyelashes, the gloom lifting at least momentarily from her features.  “Thank you.” She lifted her hand to cup his cheek and guided him down for a kiss. “I love you, Sherlock,” she declared.

She rubbed her fingers along his jaw, scratching the stubble that had grown over the course of the past few days. “Have I mentioned how roguishly handsome you are after an investigation?” 

“Great. He doesn't shave for five days and he’s ‘roguishly handsome’ whereas I grew a legitimate moustache and it was ‘has something died on your face?’” 

Sherlock turned to watch John enter the room as Molly laughed. 

“If it matters any,” she said, “I liked it. I thought it made you look distinguished.” 

“Thank you,” the doctor accepted. “At least _someone_ has good taste.” He approached the bed, kissing her on the cheek. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked. Although he asked as a friend, Sherlock could still detect the businesslike undertones of the medic in John’s voice. Molly must have sensed the same thing, because she replied as if speaking with her doctor. 

“Better now that I've had a bit of sleep, but I still feel a bit weak. I'll be much better once I get home.” She made a face, casting her eyes around her room. “I don't mind working in a hospital - I just don't like being sick in one.” 

“Well, you really should take some time away from work to recuperate and get your energy back. I'm sure Mike won't argue if you…” 

“Yes! That’s it!”  Sherlock interrupted, his friend’s comments having triggered a brilliant idea.  All his synapses fired at once and he was halfway out the door before he stopped himself with both hands on the door jamb. “John!” he called excitedly, peering back into the room at two nonplussed faces. “Stay with Molly while I make a phone call, will you?”  He didn't wait for a response - of _course_ John would stay by her side - before pushing himself back on course. 

He rushed around the floor, looking for somewhere relatively private to make a phone call. When he didn't find anything suitable, he found a stairwell and took the steps to the next floor two by two. 

Sherlock eventually found a family waiting room which was, to his great relief, empty and sat down. The chair was surprisingly comfortable - not one of those moulded plastic monstrosities, but an upholstered one with cushioning that still supported his weight. 

He pulled out his phone and searched through his contacts for a number he didn't call nearly often enough. The phone rang twice before a worried voice answered.

“Sherlock?” 

The sound of his mother’s voice was comforting and he felt some of the tension escape. “Hi Mum.” 

“Is everything alright?  You're not at the hospital again, are you?”  She sounded weary, and he felt guilty for everything he'd put his family through over the past few months. He'd been so selfish in his pursuit of saving John that he hadn't considered how his relapse would affect those who loved him. 

“Sort of, and yes,” he answered  “Look, Mum, I was wondering if it was possible for you and Dad to drop the keys to the cottage off with Mrs Hudson at some point today. I'm going to want to spend a few days there.” 

“Of course we can, but I want you to explain what's going on.  Why are you at the hospital?” 

Sherlock leaned back and sank down in the chair, his long legs splayed before him. It was a good thing he was the only one there otherwise he would have garnered some dirty looks - not that he’d care, of course. “Molly had a miscarriage.”  Saying those words to his mother felt odd, as if he were living someone else’s reality. 

“Molly? Your friend from the morgue?” she asked, confused. “I didn't know she was married.” 

Oh. Right. _Damn_. He realized he hadn't spoken to his mother since he and Molly had begun dating. “Actually,” he cleared his throat and sat up straight as if she were there in the room with him. “Molly and I have sort of been together for a few months.” 

“Oh,” she said, stunned into momentary silence.  It didn't take her long to snap out of her shock, however, to Sherlock’s dismay. “Hold on - you’re serious enough to try and have a child with her but not serious enough to introduce her to us?” 

“I did intend on introducing you, eventually,” he argued, adding a contrite “and the pregnancy wasn’t intentional.” 

At her son’s confession, Mrs. Holmes’s tone sharpened further. “And you're not using condoms?  William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I would have expected you to be more responsible than that!” 

He winced at the full use of his name.   _Of course she'd home in on that_ , he thought with a hint of despair. Sherlock had never had this talk with his mom - had never _needed_ to -  but if it was a sacrifice he needed to make to get the cottage keys, then he'd live through it.

“Of course we've been using condoms. Mostly.”  He dropped his head in his one free hand, running his fingers through his curls, and sighed deeply. “It was just the once. A lapse in judgment, _obviously_.” 

When she spoke again her voice was softer. “How is she?” 

“Physically, she lost a lot of blood but should be better in a few days. Mentally, though, she’ll need more time…. That's why I thought it would be good to stay at the cottage for a bit. It's quiet out there; it'll give us some space to think and some privacy to talk.” 

“We'll be by later this afternoon to drop the keys off.  However,” she cautioned in that Mum voice that brooked no dissent, “you will come by afterwards to introduce Molly to us. I want to meet this woman who's stolen your heart.” 

“I promise,” he replied in earnest. “Thanks, Mum.” 

He disconnected and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his phone dangling from his fingertips.  Inhaling deeply he closed his eyes and turned his gaze inward. If he wanted to be in any position to support Molly, he needed to assess his own state first and foremost. 

_Exhausted_. After a week of denying his body both food and sleep, Sherlock was exhausted. The case had required extensive legwork, chasing down leads and keeping in contact with his network at all hours of the day and night.  He was realising that at the age of 40 he no longer had the same resiliency he’d had even five years prior. These days it took him much longer to bounce back from abusing his body.   

_Maybe I should take Wiggins up on his offer to manage the network_ , he mused.  The young man had proven himself loyal, reliable and surprisingly capable.   _Next case_ , he told himself.   _Next case, I’ll give him a try_  

He looked up when he heard the door to the room open and saw John had joined him.  “Why aren’t you with Molly?” he asked, sitting up straight.  “Is something wrong?” 

“Nah,” the other man replied, taking the seat next to his.  “The technician came by to do some bloodwork so I figured I’d come and find you.”  He turned to look at Sherlock.  “How about you - you ok?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, an automatic “Of course I’m ok” on the tip of his tongue.  He thought better of it, however, opting for a more candid answer. “I don’t really know, to be honest.  I’ve got all these…”  He grimaced, waving a hand over his chest.  “... _emotions_ churning around inside me and I don’t know where any of them come from or why they’re there.” 

The other man smiled. “They're _emotions_ , mate. They're not supposed to make sense. Being angry, being horny, being sad - none of it’s logical.  You just feel what you feel - that even applies to you, Sherlock.  You claim you don’t have any emotions, but we both know that’s bullshit.  Remember what you did to that American bloke who beat up Mrs. Hudson?  Wasn’t much logic in that,” he chuckled. 

“Fine,” Sherlock conceded, “but answer me this:  why am I upset over losing something I never had in the first place?” 

“But you _did_ have something. Molly was carrying your child, a little somebody that you both created together.  It was taken from you and there was nothing either of you could have done to stop that.  It’s perfectly normal for you to feel upset about that.” 

A companionable silence stretched between the two men as Sherlock digested his friend’s wisdom.  He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t spent at least some part of the past week and a half imagining what it would be like if Molly were pregnant - Mrs. Hudson and his mother would both become intolerably sentimental (which he would openly repudiate, but secretly enjoy), he would be sent out at all hours to help satisfy a craving, he'd be expected to finally remove any experiments from the kitchen, and Molly would become more beautiful every day with their child growing inside her. 

Yes, John was right - he had every right to be upset. 

“So who did you need to call?” 

“My mum,” Sherlock answered, appreciating the change of subject. “I'm planning on taking Molly to the cottage for a few days.  I figure a change of scenery might help her sort things out, and I've been meaning to take her out there - I rather think she'd like it.” 

The other man sat up straight in his seat and turned to stare at him, his mouth open. 

“What?” Sherlock asked, the bottom of his stomach falling at his friend's reaction. “I've gone and cocked it up again, haven't I?” 

“No, actually,” John replied, shaking his head in amused disbelief.  “That is the most thoughtful, caring thing I've ever known you to do.  It's _exactly_ what Molly needs.” 

Sherlock smiled, the weight of uncertainty lifting from his shoulders. 

“Did you tell your mum why you're taking her there?” 

Sherlock felt his bubble of happiness pop.  The weight settled back in, this time in his heart. “Yes.” 

“How did she take the news?” 

“Not very well.”  He turned to look at his friend, the corner of his mouth lifting into a sour grin. “She invoked my full name.” 

John winced in sympathy. “Never good, that. What was she upset about?” 

“A few things, but I believe she was most upset about me not telling her about Molly.” 

“Wait - you and Molly have been together for what, four months now, and your parents still didn't know?” 

“Five months,” Sherlock corrected. “And in all the years you've known me, John, how often have I phoned Mum or Dad?”  He took a deep breath and stood up, heading towards the door.  It was time to go back to Molly.  “I suppose I should add that to the growing list of things in my life that will be changing.” 

He paused, his hand on the handle.  Turning to his friend, he grimaced.  “I won’t be expected to be civil to Anderson, will I?” 

John smirked.  “No,” he replied, pretending to think and then shaking his head.  “There are some things that just shouldn’t change.” 

The two men left the quiet room, walking into the chaos of rushing nurses, busy orderlies and visiting family members.  The sound of a crying baby caused Sherlock to take a closer look at his surroundings.  He noticed pink and blue balloons on the walls, along with infantile cartoon characters - ironically, he realised, he had found a waiting room in obstetrics.    

“I suppose I’ll need to call Mike regarding Molly’s absence,” he mused out loud as they waited for the elevator.  “And I’ll need to find a way to pack Molly’s bags for our trip.” 

The elevator doors opened and they stepped out of the way as a very pregnant woman was rushed by in a wheelchair by a harried looking man.  “Keep breathin’ love,” he encouraged, looking more frightened than anything.  “You’re doin’ great…” 

The woman’s reply, that her husband could do something anatomically impossible to himself, faded as they hurried further down the hallway. Sherlock and John watched as they disappeared around a corner, then looked at each other, shrugged, and stepped into the elevator.   

“As I was saying, I have a few tasks to complete before we leave, not the least of which is convincing Molly that St. Bart’s can survive without her for a few days.” 

John looked up at him and smiled.  “It’s a great plan, Sherlock,” he reiterated.  “You won’t have to try very hard to convince her - believe me.” 

“I can only hope Molly thinks as highly of my idea as you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter deals with miscarriage. This may be a difficult topic to read about for some readers, and I hope I’ve treated it with the respect and seriousness it deserves. As someone who has had miscarriages, I understand that each woman handles them differently – how I dealt with them isn’t necessarily how Molly (or any other woman) would manage their experience. But, this isn’t about me – it’s about Molly.
> 
> And, as always, you are strongly encouraged to feed the author – I accept any flavour of comments, so please hit that review button and let me know whether you’re still enjoying this story.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock brings Molly to his family's cottage for a spot of relaxation after her miscarriage. However something Molly comes across triggers long buried memories which Sherlock has to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the penultimate chapter of my story - only one more to go after this! I'm glad some of you have stuck it through and are still reading along - please take a moment to leave some feedback and let me know what you're thinking!
> 
> Kudos, as always, to my beta Marvel Lit Chick, whose sage advice made this chapter much better than it was on the first draft.
> 
> And of course, Sherlock & Co. do not belong to me - I'm just letting them drive my creative side for a spot of fun :)

In the end, John had been right.  It had taken no effort on Sherlock’s part to sell Molly on the idea of spending a few days at the Holmes cottage. 

Mike had insisted she take a week off, and she hadn't argued with him either. To Sherlock’s relief she appeared to embrace the opportunity to recharge her batteries and finally see the cottage which he'd mentioned on a few occasions.

Thursday morning, after Molly’s release from the hospital, the couple headed out after a quick stop at her apartment. Despite their leisurely mid-morning departure - timed to avoid the worst of rush hour traffic - getting out of the city centre was still a white-knuckle drive.

“It’s a wonder there aren’t more traffic-related homicides,” Sherlock growled as a taxi cut him off, nearly colliding with the front of their rental.  He’d opted against investing in accident insurance on the Range Rover but was now having second thoughts as another car squeaked ahead of him.

“We’re not in a hurry,” Molly reminded him calmly.  “We don’t have any appointments to keep or schedules to follow.  And look,” she added, waving her hand in front of her, “even the weather is cooperating.”

As much as he wanted to gripe about being the one stuck driving, Sherlock found himself agreeing with her.  The sky stretched above them, an endless sea of blue, not even a wisp of cloud marring its perfection.  It was the ideal summer day - exactly what you’d wish in mid-July - and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of freedom.  He assumed it was how one was supposed to feel on the cusp of a holiday as they cast aside the fetters of responsibility.

Traffic began to thin out as steel and concrete gave way to the green of trees and tall grasses, and Sherlock felt the last vestiges of stress evaporate.  He chanced a quick sideways glance at Molly, whose attention was on the scenery passing them by, and reached over to take her hand in his.  He wondered where her mind was, if her thoughts were still on the miscarriage and if she still carried the same sadness in her heart.  She squeezed his hand and smiled at him - not a wan facsimile, but a genuine smile which reached her eyes - and he returned it, relieved.

“I was thinking of stopping in Ipswich for lunch,” he suggested, thinking ahead to their first stop.  “We’re about an hour away, give or take.  There’s a pub called the Malt and Hops where I’ve eaten on a number of occasions; the owner is a bit odd but the food has always been good.”

“Mmm…  That’s just what I need after all those wholesome, boring, hospital meals - some good stick-to-your-ribs food.”  She leaned forward, fiddling with the radio stations until it landed on a song with a good beat.  “That's what being on vacation is all about, though, isn't it? Not caring so much about what something costs or how many calories there are - it's about indulging yourself and trying new things.”

“I wouldn't know - I've actually never been on holiday,” Sherlock remarked. “Not as an adult, in any case.”

Molly’s hand paused mid-air as she moved in to switch stations again. “You've never been on holiday?  Ever?”  When he shook his head in confirmation she pulled her arm back and turned in her seat to better face him. “But you've travelled extensively. Haven't you ever stopped to see any of the sights or take in the local culture?”

Belgrade, Casablanca, Istanbul… Many of Sherlock’s “trips”, most of them taken on the British government’s dime, flashed through his mind. “No,” he said in a measured tone, his fingers curling tightly around the steering wheel despite his attempt to school his reaction. “My reasons for travelling have never allowed for sightseeing.”

Molly’s gaze was fixed steadily on him, and he imagined the wheels turning in her head as she mulled his words over, reading between the lines, trying to make sense of them.

“Well,” she said, turning back to fiddle with the radio, “we’ll change that soon enough.  I’ll make a proper tourist out of you by the end of our holiday.”

She hadn’t pressed.  There was no way Molly hadn’t noticed the scars on his back, hadn’t put two and two together to figure out what his evasive response hinted at.  Yet she'd provided him with a reprieve, understanding this wasn't the time or place for this particular conversation.   _If there ever is a time and place for such a thing_ , he mused.

“Did you eat at the Malt and Hops when you came here with your family as a child?”

Relief washed over him as she changed the subject.  “No, it wasn't the sort of pub parents would take their children to, back then. In any case, we only bought the cottage when I was ten, and by then Mycroft was away at Eton.”

“Oh,” she replied. She'd placed her hand on his lap, her index finger drawing random outlines on the inside of his thigh. Sherlock wondered if Molly was even aware of what she was doing, or of the effect it had on him.

He felt himself begin to harden, his cock all too familiar with her firm touch.  Even if pulling over to the side of the road _had_ been an option - which it very much wasn't, considering the reason for this holiday - he doubted Molly would be impressed with an impromptu shag in broad daylight in such a public setting.  

“Did you take many vacations with your family when you were young?” he asked, changing his focus.

“Every summer,” she replied. Sherlock didn't have to glance her way to know she was smiling; her voice held that dreamy quality of someone revisiting happy memories.  He felt a pang of regret at not having appreciated his own family vacations more than he’d had, always seeing them as new forms of torture his parents had devised for him and Mycroft.

“Most years Dad would rent a motorhome and we'd just drive around - go to Yorkshire or Scotland, stopping every night.  Those were my favourite vacations, having new adventures every day, visiting all sorts of interesting places.”  She sighed happily and went silent, no doubt revisiting cherished memories.

When she started to chuckle, he threw her a curious look.  “One year we did something different,” she said. “We travelled to the United States for my aunt Susan’s wedding.  My sister and I were so excited.  We spent weeks planning all the sites we would see: the Statue of Liberty, the Grand Canyon, the Golden Gate Bridge…”

“But those aren't remotely close…”

“Shh!” She laughed, smacking him in the arm. “I was eight and she was ten; we had no idea, and Mum and Dad didn't have the heart to tell us otherwise. Needless to say, when we got to Nashville we weren't impressed.”

“Please tell me they didn't drag you out to go line dancing,” Sherlock groaned.

Molly went silent, looking at him. One look at the pained expression on his face sent her into hysterics.

“I'm happy my misery entertains you,” he groused, pushing away the unpleasant memories of the one and only time he visited Nashville.  

The pathologist ignored his moue.  “Oh, poor dear,” she teased. “How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

Molly’s laughter bubbled up again but, for once, the humiliation that always resurfaced at the memory of his parents dragging him to a country music bar never materialized. He felt the corners of his mouth tugging upward and soon joined her.

“I was traumatized, you know,” he added, still chuckling.  He slowed down, entering the roundabout that would take them into Ipswich.

“Any 17 year old not into country and western music would have been,” she agreed, looking at the city pass them by.  “Where’s the pub you mentioned?”

“Further into the city - it's in an older neighbourhood.  Not so…” He crinkled his nose in distaste. “Commercialized.”

They arrived at their destination shortly thereafter and both travellers were happy to stand up and stretch their legs.  Sherlock noticed that a building across the street from the pub, derelict the last time he'd been at the Malt and Hops, had been renovated into stylish flats.

Molly followed his gaze.  “It’s always nice to see older buildings given new life instead being torn down,” she commented.  “We’ve seen too much of that in London.”

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally.  He'd never really had an opinion on the subject either way.  “I suppose extravagant flats sold at triple market value simply because they’re considered ‘trendy’ are a better alternative than abandoned factories.”

Molly sighed. “Ever a romantic,” she said wryly.

“I’m a romantic where it counts, and urban development doesn’t come close to qualifying.”  He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.  Hand in hand, they crossed the street and reached the pub’s entrance.  Sherlock held the door open for Molly, placing his hand at the small of her back as he followed her into the small restaurant.

Like many small pubs, this particular establishment was dimly lit and its furniture made of mahogany ( _real_ mahogany, surprisingly and impressively, Sherlock had noted on his first visit).  The sign at the entrance was turned to its “Please seat yourself” side, so the couple sat themselves at a table by a window overlooking a river.

“Sherlock Holmes!” someone called from the back of the restaurant.

Sherlock turned in his seat and saw a man in his early seventies approaching their table. Short and stocky, he wore a flamboyantly loud tartan sport coat and oversized tortoise-shell rimmed glasses, giving him the appearance of a man caught in a time warp.  The many gold rings on his left hand, however, spoke of someone who was eccentric rather than simply fashion-challenged.

“Archie,” Sherlock replied amiably before standing to shake the man’s hand. “How are things?”

“Great, great,” he replied quickly, his voice a few octaves higher than usual. His gaze flited to Molly, then the door.  “Is, ah, is your brother gracing us with his presence, today?”

_That_ explained the man’s nervousness.  “No,” the detective assured the man soberly as he sat back down.  “You don't have to worry about any ‘tournaments’.”

Archie visibly relaxed, standing straighter as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders. “Good, good…  Will you have time to join us for a hand?  We can always deal you in.”

“Not this time,” Sherlock declined.  He looked at Molly, smirking at her confusion and throwing her a look that said ‘I'll fill you in later’.  “The company is much more pleasant this time around.”

“Of course,” the man conceded before truly taking note of Molly.  “Oh, oh! Where are my manners?”  He stuck his hand out at Molly, his deeply tanned face creasing even more with a wide smile. “Archibald Rumboldt at your service, ma’am.”

“Molly Hooper,” she replied.  “It's a pleasure, Mr. Rumboldt.”

“Pfft.”  He waved his hand at her. “The only people who call me Mr. Rumboldt are the tax man and _his_ brother,” he said, nodding in Sherlock's direction.  “Please call me Archie.”

“Alright, Archie,” Molly laughed.  She glanced at the menu in her hands and asked him “What do you recommend for lunch?”

The man's face fell comically and he looked back at Sherlock. “Pity, pity!  All business this one, eh?”

“I _did_ tell her how good the food is here.” the detective replied, knowing full well how to flatter the older man.

Archie's pout disappeared immediately at the compliment.  “Always buttering me up, this one is,” he said to Molly, sotto voce.  Straightening up, he said, a bit louder, “I'll have Jenny come by and take your orders.  It was delightful seeing you again, Sherlock, and a pleasure meeting you, Molly.”  With that, he was off, a bit of a skip in his step.

When the older man had disappeared through the doors to the kitchen, Sherlock turned his attention back to Molly.  “I think he fancies you,” he said, teasingly.

To his surprise Molly threw him a disbelieving look and giggled.  “Sorry, but _Archie_ ,” she said in a poor attempt to emulate his unusual cadence of speech, “fancies _you_ , Sherlock.”

The detective stared at her, looking for the usual markers of a lie - he wasn't Lestrade, but he could still tell well enough - and found none. “Hmm…” he pondered, going over past interactions with the other man.  “That does explain some things.”

Molly's reply was interrupted by the arrival of their server.   _Jane? Ginny? Janine? No, I would have remembered that._

“Welcome back to the Malt and Hops,” she said, giving Sherlock a shy, amused smile. “Today's soup is beef barley, our pie of the day is leek and mushroom, and the curry is coconut shrimp with lemongrass.  I'll give you two some time to decide; in the meanwhile, can I get you something to drink?”

“I'll just have a cranberry and soda please,” Molly replied.

“London Pride, if you have it on tap.”  

The server nodded.  “I'll be back soon with your drinks and to take your orders.”

Sherlock watched Jessica ( _Julia? Jenna?)_ walk away. “She seemed amused when she first arrived at our table,” he commented, confused.  “Was she simply being friendly or do you think she also noticed Archie’s interest in me?”

“Probably a bit of both,” Molly admitted, opening her menu.  “I wouldn't let it bother you, though; it's harmless.”

“And you're not jealous?”  This was still so new to Sherlock, the relationship, the sentiments - he was wary of making a misstep without knowing it. He certainly didn't want to endanger what he had with Molly.

His companion looked up from her menu, an inscrutable look on her face, before letting out a bark of laughter.  “No, Sherlock, I'm not jealous of a senior citizen who dresses like an extra from _Are You Being Served_.  Anyway,” she leaned in, lowering her voice, “you're a self-professed breasts man. I doubt you'd enjoy Archie Rumboldt's breasts.”

Sherlock's mind wandered at the thought of Molly’s breasts, to the soft weight of them in his hands, the gentle moans he could draw from her when his mouth was on them.

Molly misread his silence.  “You're not upset by his interest, are you?”

“Do you remember,” he said, leaning in closer over the table and taking her hands in his, “that night, on the settee?”

The blush that spread across her cheeks told him that yes, she did remember.  Drawing circles on the backs of her hands with his thumbs, he whispered. “So you remember how I made you come with my fingers, my mouth, my cock?”

Her lips parted, her chest rising and falling shallowly - she was also lost in the memory - Molly nodded.

“Then you'll know I’m neither confused nor embarrassed about my sexuality,” he stated plainly. He let go of her and leaned back in his chair. “Anyway, it wouldn't be the first time I'd attracted interest from members of my gender.  I _did_ go to University.”

“I think your University days may have been a bit wilder than mine,” she replied wryly.  “The craziest we got was mixing drinks in the lab.”

That made him chuckle.  “I barely graduated, so I think your crazy was better than mine.”

Their server returned to take their orders. Afterwards, Molly sat back in her chair, taking a sip of her drink. “So… what's this about ‘tournaments’, then?”

“Oh, _that_.” Sherlock chuckled. “Archie somehow got it in his mind that Mycroft is interested in the poker games he organises in a room at the back of the restaurant.”

“That doesn't sound like something Mycroft would concern himself with,” Molly observed, her brow drawn.

“Indeed. Mycroft’s interests lie in events where the stakes are much higher than a back room poker game in Ipswich.”

“Then why don't you tell him that, instead of letting him fret?”

“Are you kidding?  That's part of the fun, thinking he's doing something illicit.  I'd never burst his bubble like that.”

Molly shook her head, the look on her face telling him she neither understood nor condoned any of it. “I'll have to take your word for it.”

The remainder of their time at the Malt and Hops was spent either in comfortable, contemplative silence or in small talk.  Sherlock asked Molly for more stories on her family vacations, wanting to vicariously experience fond family memories through her own.  Molly, for her part, asked him questions about the case he'd solved just before she'd landed in the hospital. 

Archie came back out to say goodbye as they were leaving, shaking Sherlock’s hand firmly - a sign of the man’s strong character, regardless of his idiosyncrasies - and placing a kiss on Molly's hand. “Thank you, thank you for coming!  Please visit us again on your way back.” He winked at Sherlock after Molly excused herself to use the facilities before leaving.  “Maybe you'll have time to join us.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied politely, not committing either way, before heading for the exit.

Outside, the detective leaned back against the car and closed his eyes, tilting his face towards the heat of the sun.

It wasn't something he would have done before Molly. “A waste of time,” or “unnecessary sensory information,” he would have scoffed.  Molly had shown him, however, that many small sensations can add up to produce a profoundly enjoyable result, such as the combination of beer, good music and friends after solving a case, or how a look, a smile and a feather-light touch by Molly could set his heart racing.

The door to the restaurant opened and Molly walked out.  She paused, looking up at the sun, and smiled before cossing the street to join him. “What a gorgeous day,” she marvelled.

He leaned down and kissed her (something else he wouldn't have thought of doing before: public displays of affection).  “Yes, very beautiful,” he replied, opening her car door.

She smiled at him, understanding he hadn't necessarily been talking about the weather.  “Such a charmer,” she blushed, sitting down.

Once he was in the car, he turned the ignition and lowered his window, letting in some fresh air.  “Back on the road, then?”

“Actually, I was wondering if we might make a bit of a detour to check this out.”  She handed him a paper which advertised a local market. “I picked it up at the pub. We could look around a bit, maybe do a bit of shopping and pick up a few things to make for dinner. 

Sherlock scanned the flyer advertising the Thursday market in Stowmarket.  As unappealing (see: dreadful) as a shopping trip sounded, if the prospect excited Molly he was willing to go along with it. The whole purpose of their vacation was to help her relax and to make her happy, and truth be told if she was happy so was he.  Even if shopping was involved.

“Stowmarket it is, then,” he confirmed, setting the destination in Google Maps and pulling back out onto the road. 

***

Sherlock pulled up his cottage’s driveway, stopping the Range Rover beside the small fence surrounding the front yard.  He turned off the ignition, and the only sounds were the clicking of the cooling engine and Molly’s gentle breaths as she slept beside him.  

Peering out the windshield, his thoughts turned to the last time he'd been to the small cottage.  Christmas with his family, after he'd been shot - his mother had insisted, to everyone's discomfort (not that he'd disliked his mother’s pampering - _that_ was never unwelcome, although he'd never admit it out loud).  Mary had been there, pregnant with Rosie, still with them, still _alive_.  It had only been a year or so ago but it may as well have been a lifetime.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, needing to move before his thoughts turned dark.  He turned to look at his companion, who was still sound asleep despite the car no longer moving.  She looked so small curled onto her side, but despite her diminutive size she'd been a significant catalyst for change in his life.

Change, such as going to a public market - never something he would have done outside of a case ( _bah, pedestrian_ ). And he'd actually _enjoyed_ it.

He'd stopped at a booth selling antique books and had spent so much time browsing the selection that Molly kissed him on the cheek and moved along to the next vendor.  When he eventually caught up with her, a Victorian tome on unusual medical practices and a first edition copy of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women (ridiculously priced, but it was Molly’s favourite therefore a brilliant choice for a Christmas gift) in his coat pocket, she was buying some fruit and vegetables at a farmer’s stall.

She turned toward him, eyes brilliant, her cheeks and nose sun-kissed.  “Did you read all the books? You were there for nearly an hour,” she teased, standing on the tips of her toes to press a kiss against his lips.

Sherlock kissed her back, pulling away before forgetting - or no longer caring - they were in a public setting. His gaze settled on the numerous bags she was carrying. “Find something you liked?” he asked, ribbing her in return.

Molly was about to reply when her attention shifted back her purchase. “Oh, so sorry!” she said, accepting her change back from the woman manning the booth.  She picked up her purchase - a plastic bag with leafy greens and a basket of peaches - with a friendly “Thanks!” and turned to leave.

“Aren't you Sherlock Holmes?” the woman called after them, leaning in to get a better look at Molly’s companion.

Sherlock hesitated, his mind going straight to - oddly enough - John Watson.

John had recently created a timeline for Sherlock, much to the detective’s annoyance: BM and AM, meaning Before Molly and After Molly.  Arrogant behaviour?  BM.  Polite to Donavan? (to her complete and utter shock) AM.  Quietly tolerating the prattling of an aged potential client? AM.  Haggling with a girl guide over the cost of a box of cookies?  Woefully BM (To her credit the guide had dug her heels in and held her own, not only getting the full five quid from him, but convincing him to buy a second box at full price, too.   _Future lawyer, that one_ , John had remarked afterwards).

Before Molly, Sherlock would have played dumb and said “Sherlock who? Never ‘eard of ‘im” as he tucked tail, or he would have cruelly deduced the old farmer ( _groove on your ring finger and whiskers on your chin due to a lapse in personal grooming point to a recent widowing, a knitting bag full of half completed projects and two puzzle books on the go show little to no social life - friends most likely died of cancer or old age, the faint stain on your coat shows that even your dog doesn't like you…)_ in an attempt to… To what?  What had he ever gained from offensively thrusting his observations on people?

Nothing, he now realized.  He'd never gained anything from being callous.  Janine had been right - rather than using her, he could have worked with her and kept her as a friend.

“The one and only,” he replied, reaching over and helping Molly with her bags.

The woman smiled conspiratorially and leaned in.  “On a case, are you?”

He shook his head.  “I'm afraid not. This trip is entirely recreational.”

“Bah,” she volleyed, waving her hand. “Always so much going on in this neck o’ the woods - I'm sure something will come up that needs your help.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want my talents atrophying, would we?” he teased back.

“And what do your talents tell you when you look at me, if you don’t mind my asking?” she parried, eyeing him shrewdly.

Molly’s eyes widened and she shot him a panicked look, anticipating the typical Sherlock Holmes “evisceration by deduction” which she’d often witnessed (and had suffered herself, once or twice, regrettably).

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to worry, felt frustration at having to repeat over and over again that he was a different man, that she, John, Mrs. Hudson - hell, even Lestrade - had saved him through their friendship and their persistence in dragging the better person out of him (even if it had been kicking and screaming).

But then again, what are words when actions speak so much louder?

Sherlock looked at the woman once more, reassessing his earlier appraisal through a different lens.  “You recently removed a ring that was worn for many years - I'm very sorry for your loss; you've even continued to care for his dog, despite there being no love lost between you and the creature; you have many grandchildren whom you love and, judging by the handmade trinkets hanging from your purse, who love you back; you're as sharp as a tack but you worry about dementia, so you're exercising your mind with puzzles.”  He paused for effect, ever the showman.  “Am I close?”

The woman stared at him, her mouth hanging open, and then she let out an amused guffaw. “Amazing!” she said, laughing.  Shaking her head, she added “I'm glad you're on our side, son” before wishing him and Molly a wonderful day and moving on to help another customer who’d been watching the exchange with open interest.

When they’d walked a short distance from the booth, Molly offered Sherlock a heartfelt “Thank you”, reaching for his hand.  He gave hers a gentle squeeze in response.  They continued to walk through the market, browsing the last of the booths on their way back to the parking lot.

“Well?” he asked, stopping to look at his companion.  “You see everything you needed to see?”

“I am officially shopped out,” Molly conceded.  “This little market was just the right size for the amount energy I’ve got right now; I don’t think I could have handled anything much bigger.”

They resumed their walk back to the car, Sherlock carrying the bulk of her bags.  “You can take a nap in the car if you need to rest.  We still have about an hour’s worth of driving before we get to the cottage.”

“I'll just close my eyes and rest,” she said as she slipped into her seat. “I've never been able to fall asleep in a car.”

Contrary to her assertions, Molly had fallen soundly asleep before they'd even reached the main road that led to Bramfield.

“Molly,” he called quietly, carefully shaking her.  “We’re here.”

Slowly, she began to stir, blinking the sleep from her eyes.  “Oh,” she yawned, stretching.  “How long have I been sleeping?”

“You fell asleep almost as soon as we left Stowmarket.”

She offered him a contrite smile, brushing a stray lock from her forehead.  “I'm sorry.  It must have been a dull drive.”

“You needed the rest,” he replied plainly, not understanding why she felt the need to apologize.  “Come on - let me give you the grand tour.” 

***

It hadn't surprised Sherlock that of everything she'd seen of the small cottage, the gardens had garnered Molly's greatest reaction.

“Oh!” she'd exclaimed upon setting foot out the back door into his mother’s English garden, walking out amongst the echinacea, lupins and daisies, pausing to look at light pink peonies and smell bright red roses.  “Oh, Sherlock,” she sighed, turning towards him. “It's so beautiful.  Do you think your mum would agree to give me a few pointers on starting a little garden of my own in my backyard?”

“She'd love to.  If you give her half the chance she'll have it all planned out for you.”  He walked over to where she was standing, taking her in the circle of his arms.  “Both she and Dad are very eager to meet you. I don't think they'll believe you exist until they see you in the flesh.”

Molly chuckled, her small frame nestled comfortably against him. She sighed happily, eventually pulling away.  “We should bring our bags in from the car - some of the food I bought at the market needs to go in the refrigerator.”

They made their way around to the front, Molly continuing to wonder at the flowers as they walked along the path.

“What did you end up buying at the market?”  Sherlock asked as they approached the car.  “I never did remember to ask you after we left that last booth.”

“I bought some cured meats and a few cheeses, as well as a baguette - I thought we could put together a ploughman’s lunch.  Well, a ploughman’s dinner, I guess.  If we add a few boiled eggs and some fruit, we should have enough food.”

“That sounds delicious,” Sherlock agreed.  He looked at all the bags that had been put in the boot of the Ranger.  “Do all those bags have food in them?”

“No.  I’m afraid the market caught me at a weak moment.”  She pulled a few bags apart from the others, digging through them.  “I bought an apron made with fabric that has a cat and sushi pattern - it made me laugh, and I need a new apron anyway; I bought a wristlet made from locally hand-woven fabric; I bought a picture frame for that photo of us that John took at Greg’s birthday party…”  She rummaged through the bags until she found what she was looking for.  “Here it is.  I also got some yarn and knitting needles; I used to knit, _years_ ago and have been thinking of starting up again.  I joined an online knitting community when I found out I was pregnant - I was looking for baby blanket patterns - but now I’m going to try my hand at a lovely poncho I came across.”

Molly's casual mention of her pregnancy loosened the weight of sadness that had settled in Sherlock’s heart.  He wondered whether her pragmatism in the face of such a traumatic personal experience was due to her familiarity with death (she did, after all, deal with death in a daily basis) or whether it was a result of an inner strength few were gifted with.

Considering she loved a man as difficult as him, he was leaning towards “inner strength”.

“Not really the weather for thinking of ponchos, is it?” he answered, taking an armful of bags and their luggage.

Molly grabbed the remaining two or three bags, closing the boot.  “True, but once it’s  cold enough to wear it, it'll be too late to start thinking about making it.”

“Fair point,” he acquiesced, walking up to the front door.  He stepped back, allowing her to open the door with her free hand, and followed her inside.

Inside the cottage, Sherlock deposited his armload by the front door. “I'll bring our bags up to our room if you can put away the groceries,” he offered.  Molly agreed, so he grabbed their suitcases and navigated the narrow stairwell to the top floor.

He went to his own room out of instinct, but stopped short at the sight of the single bed. “Bugger,” he muttered, turning around and walking over to his parents’ room.  He hesitated in the doorway, an adolescent-like discomfort settling in at the thought of sleeping in the same bed as his parents - namely, in the same bed where they…

He knew they were still sexually active - he’d heard how Mycroft had caught them in the act during a surprise visit one afternoon a few years prior. Everyone had been mortified - everyone save Sherlock, who was secretly gleeful at Mycroft’s extreme discomfiture.

Setting the two suitcases on the floor, Sherlock walked over to the closet and selected a set of clean sheets.  As he busied himself with changing the linens his thoughts turned to sharing a bed with Molly - or, more specifically, to what they _wouldn’t_ be doing in the bed.  The doctor at the hospital had been very clear in her instructions that he and Molly abstain from intercourse for six weeks, giving her body enough time to heal from the miscarriage. 

He knew it was a very selfish line of thought, but he couldn't help but wonder if there were other ways they could continue to be intimate.  Both he and Molly shared a healthy sexual appetite and had sex many times a week - would she still want him in that way, or would she want to wait?   _Six weeks is a long time_ , he told himself as he struggled with a tight fitted sheet, _but it's nothing compared to how long it had been before Molly.  If she wants to wait, we wait, and I'll have to be patient._

His task finally accomplished, he made his way back downstairs, finding Molly in the kitchen standing before an open cupboard.  She turned to him, eyebrows raised, her mouth working, no sound coming out.

“What?” he frowned, walking over to stand beside her.  There didn't appear to be anything wrong with the cupboard - no sign of infestation or rodent activity, no collapsed shelf with broken cookware. “What is it?”

Her hand shot out, clamping solidly onto his forearm. “It's a cupboard full of Le Creuset,” she said, her voice squeaky and full of wonder.

“Oh _God_ , not you too!  What is it with women and that bloody French cookware?”  He did an about face and walked over to the refrigerator, noting the absence of flourish as he did so.  He always missed his Belstaff in the summer months, the weight of it across his shoulders, the dramatic swoosh of the hem when he rushed from place to place. Life didn't seem quite right without it.

“For one,” Molly started - she'd joined him at the fridge, taking food back out to prepare dinner, “it’s versatile. You can braise meat on the cooktop and then throw it in the oven to roast instead of getting multiple pans dirty.”

“Fewer dishes to wash is never a bad thing,” he conceded. He placed the packets of cheese on the counter and searched through a few drawers before finding a wooden cutting board large enough to serve as a platter.  “But it doesn't explain why you'd pay two hundred pounds for one pot.”

Grabbing a knife, Molly began to cut through the food wrappings. “That's because you buy it once, and it lasts a lifetime.  The one I have was my grandmother’s, who passed it down to my mother, who passed it down to me when I bought my house. So…” She threw him a playful look, bumping him with her hip, “over the course of 50 years and counting, the price ends being more than reasonable.”

Sherlock huffed - he couldn't argue with that point either.  “Yes, but your arguments would point to owning _one_ dish. Not collecting them like baubles, like Mum’s done.”

“But they come in such pretty colours!”  She laughed at the incredulous look on his face, standing in her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.  “Yes, marketing _is_ involved, and I'm well aware of it.”

They worked quietly side by side, assembling their dinner, the sound of birdsong floating in through the open window.  Molly paused every now and then, her attention focused on something outside, before resuming her chopping or slicing.

“Is it ok if we eat outside?” she asked, dropping a dollop of grainy mustard onto the wooden board.  “It would seem a waste of sunshine to eat indoors.”

“I think we can arrange that.  Mum’s got a table and chair suite set up in the garden; we could eat there if you wish.”  Sherlock placed a spoonful of pickled onions beside slices of sausage and wiped his hands clean on a dish cloth.  The cottage’s refrigerator had been much better stocked than he’d anticipated - right down to a bottle of his favourite white wine - leading him to believe his parents had somehow arranged a delivery between the phone call with his mother and his and Molly’s arrival. _It would only make sense for someone local to have a copy of the key in case of an emergency_ , he mused.  Not that this was an emergency, but to his Mother, “Sherlock has a girlfriend” would likely rate just as highly.

“That would be perfect,” Molly agreed, replacing the caps on the various jars and putting them back in the refrigerator.  She took out the bottle of wine, closing the door behind her.  As she turned back towards the counter, reaching for the glasses Sherlock had taken out, her brow was drawn and her lips were pressed together.  “Is it just me,” she wondered, “or does this refrigerator seem coincidentally well stocked for our visit?”

Sherlock smiled as he walked by her, platter in hand.  He leaned in, kissing her on the temple.  “Welcome to my mother, Molly.  With her, there is no such thing as coincidence.” 

***

After dinner, the two enjoyed a bowl of ice cream for dessert - another sign of his parents’ involvement - before retreating to the living room, sated with good food and warm late-day sunshine.

“Your mum has so many books - I don't even know where to begin.” Molly traced their spines lightly with a finger, skimming across all the titles.

Sherlock fell back into his favourite chair and pulled out his new book, perusing the list of contents. “Read them all,” he remarked casually, not out of vanity but as a simple truth. “I tend to get bored when I'm stuck here.  Not much else to do other than read - unless I want to listen to Mycroft prattle on about how much smarter he is than me, or to hear about Mum and Dad’s latest trip to the American Midwest.” He shuddered, making a face.

Molly chuckled, used to his half-hearted deprecating comments about his family.  “I'm sure I can find at least one you haven't read.”

“Good luck with that. Mum hasn't brought any new books here in years.”

“What about ‘Generatingfunctionology’?”

“By Herbert Wilf, on the topic of combinatorics.  I read it during a particularly boring Easter holiday a few years back.  Dreadfully dry reading. Try again.”

He could hear the creak of the floorboards as Molly walked from bookcase to bookcase, looking for the impossible. As he'd told her, there wasn't a book here he hadn't read.

“So you've even read _The Thorn Birds_?” she asked, a hint of humour colouring her tone.

Curious, Sherlock peeked over the top of his book and saw she was now sitting on the floor, browsing the books occupying the bottom shelf.  The title of the book was unfamiliar to him, and he was unable to hide the irritation at having been proven wrong from his voice as he replied.  

“No, I haven't. I would remember reading a book on ornithology.”

“It’s not a scientific book, it's a piece of fiction about a priest who falls in love with a young woman despite his attempts not to. They made it into a television series back in the ‘80s.  My aunt Lucy was infatuated with it - and with Richard Chamberlain.”

“Ugh.”  Sherlock pulled a face.  “I can't imagine why Mum would read such drivel.”

“Most women like a little romance every now and then, Sherlock. It's not surprising to find a book like this among all the scholarly works she owns.”

Sherlock grunted a noncommittal acknowledgement of her comment - he believed her, even if he didn't understand it - and went back to reading the chapter on the use of arsenic for treating myriad maladies.

“Oh!” he heard her exclaim. “Oh, my!”

“That titillating, is it?” he responded drily, not caring to look up. Women’s infatuation with romance novels was a mystery he didn't care to understand, never mind solve.

“No,” Molly replied, sounding distracted. “The book is hollow. It's filled with photographs.”  She paused, adding “I think these are of you and Mycroft, although there are other children, too.”

That caught his attention. “Mum’s got loads of photo albums at the house.  Why would she have photos hidden away here?”  He put his book down on the coffee table and joined her on the floor, curious.  

“Is the girl a cousin of yours?  She looks so much like you.”

“We never had our cousins over at our old house,” he replied, taking the photo she held out to him.  He looked at the image of himself and another boy, both dressed as pirates; his attention, however, was drawn to the little girl in pigtails and a summer dress who stood apart, staring intently at the boys. She looked so familiar…

And then he remembered.  “ _Eurus_ ,” he whispered hoarsely.  

His _sister_. He'd had, at one point in his life, a younger sister.  But where was she?  What had happened?

More importantly, why didn’t he have any memories of her?

He’d started building his mind palace at an early age, creating it room by room - he’d erected every wall, installed every door, added every single personal detail himself over the years.  Although it was true he’d deleted the superfluous knowledge that tends to crowd the minds of the masses - the order of the solar system, the names of famous actors, the rules to football, for example - he _had_ kept cherished memories.  If he’d carefully stored receiving his first microscope, or the smell of his Nan’s freshly baked bread, or his adventures with Redbeard, where were the memories of Eurus?

If it was possible for his mind palace to be gapping something so basic, so fucking _elementary_ as a sibling, did that mean his mind was equally vulnerable?

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath, retreating inward for answers.

The sterile white corridors of his mind, comforting in their familiarity, were absent. Instead, he found himself surrounded by walls of opulent wallpaper and dark panelling. Off in the distance he could hear a little girl singing:

_I that am lost, oh who will find me_

_Deep down below the old beech tree..._

Panic began to set in, his heart thumping in his chest.  There was something about the song that made his blood run cold, terrifying him on a visceral level, and he sped up as he walked through the hallways.

_Help succour me now the east winds blow_

_Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go!_

He was searching for something, although he didn't know what. Room after room was empty, the oppressive silence weighing on his nerves.  “Hello?” he called, his voice echoing against the walls.

He heard a responding bark from somewhere in the house.

“Redbeard?” He headed for the stairs, taking them two by two as he tried to triangulate where the sound had come from. “Redbeard!  Come here, boy!”

_Be not afraid to walk in the shade_

_Save one, save all, come try!_

Ignoring the singing, he rushed through the main floor, trying all the doors.  His fear was mounting, his breathing fast and shallow, but something had happened to Redbeard and he knew he needed to find his dog. Needed to help him. Needed to save him. 

_My steps - five by seven_

_Life is closer to heaven_

_Look down with dark gaze from on high._

Another bark, this one nearby.  There was one door left, different than the others. Painted a robin’s egg shade of blue, it had children’s drawings of pirate ships stuck to it with thumb tacks.  “Redbeard?” he called, quieter this time. The responding sound was muffled, but it was no longer a bark. It almost sounded like crying.

His hand shaking, Sherlock reached for the doorknob.  It turned easily, and as he opened the door, a flood of memories rushed through him like a physical blow.

He cried out when he felt someone grab him, but quickly realized it was Molly.

“It wasn't a dog - _he_ wasn't a dog. He was a boy and she killed him. She killed Victor.”  Sherlock’s heart felt like it would beat its way out of his chest, and he was trying to catch his breath but damn it why couldn't he breathe?

He felt Molly's gentle touch, cool hands at the back of his neck, her words calm and measured. “Breathe with me, Sherlock.  Come on, love, you're having an anxiety attack. Just like I'm doing - in through the nose, out through the mouth…”

She guided his actions, the soothing cadence of her voice calming him.  When he'd regained control of his breathing, his heart rate returning closer to normal, he sat back up self-consciously.

He wiped the tears from his cheeks and cleared his throat. Molly watched him, still worried but patient as ever, understanding as ever.  “The little girl in the photographs is Eurus, my sister.”

Molly shifted, moving from her knees to a more comfortable seated position.  She frowned, confused. “Your sister? But, Sherlock, you've never mentioned having a sister.”

“I must have repressed my memories of her. I still don't remember her very clearly, but what I do remember is that she was highly intelligent…”

“Why doesn't that surprise me?” his companion interjected wryly.

“You don't understand,” he replied, trying to impress upon her the seriousness of what his sister was like.  “Eurus was as intelligent as Mycroft - possibly more so. But she was also bereft of empathy - she was the type of child who would pull the wings off butterflies just to see what would happen. She enjoyed inflicting pain on me and took a perverse joy in destroying anything I was fond of.”

“The little boy?” she asked, her face growing paler, guessing where the conversation was leading.

Sherlock nodded. “His name was Victor.  His family lived nearby, and we were inseparable.” He smiled at the fond memories he'd regained of him and his friend.  “We'd spend hours every day out by the river playing pirates.  She wanted to play with us, but we were six years old and had no time for girls so we always told her to bugger off.  Then one day he didn't show up. Mum said he must’ve had somewhere to go with his family, but that afternoon his dad came by to pick him up. He'd left home that morning as always, but hadn't made it to our house.  They never found him, alive or dead. Never found out what happened to him.”  He closed his eyes, reliving a child’s confusion and grief through the understanding of an adult.

What had Victor’s parents gone through, never knowing what had happened to their son?  Would they have seen him out of the corner of their eye along every busy street?  Would they have imagined him alone and afraid, calling for them? He didn't remember what had happened to them, whether they'd moved or stayed in the same house, passing by his bedroom door day after day, its emptiness eating away at them.

“Not long after that, Eurus began to sing this song, and somehow we knew - we just _knew_ \- she was the one who'd done something to Victor. She taunted me with it, this riddle that I was supposed to solve to get my friend back. Of course I never did, and Mum and Dad never managed to get her to admit to any of it.  We moved not long after that, and I guess I began to rewrite my memories, remembering Victor as a dog called Redbeard.”

“What happened to Eurus?”

“I honestly don't know.  I…” He strained, but nothing came.  “I can't remember.”

“That's ok, I think you've remembered enough for one day.  I'm sure the other memories will come back, now that you've begun to remember.”

Molly got up, extending her hand to him. He accepted it and stood up, wobbling slightly before regaining his balance. She pulled him into a hug and he allowed her to give him her strength, her understanding, her love.  

Oh, how wrong he'd been to claim that love was a dangerous disadvantage.  He knew, now, that the love that existed between two people made them stronger than they would have been each on their own.  “Thank you,” he whispered, placing a kiss on her neck before stepping back.

The sun had set by then, casting the room in the long shadows of dusk.  Sherlock pulled the chain on the small Tiffany lamp that sat on a side table, bathing the area in a warm glow.  Despite the residual warmth of the late summer evening, it felt cool and damp inside the old cottage.

“Would you like me to build a fire?” he asked.

Molly sat down on the sofa, tucking her feet under her. “That would be lovely.”

Grateful for the distraction provided by the tedious, familiar task, Sherlock knelt before the wood stove.  He crumpled newspaper into a ball and placed kindling into a pyramid around it, lighting it with a match. He'd been making fires as long as he remembered and had honed his technique to near-perfection.

The dry wood crackled as the flames from the paper tickled its edges.  Once he was certain the fire was well-established, Sherlock added a few small logs, making sure to keep his fingers and shirt cuffs out of the flames’ reach.

“There,” he said, closing the stove's door before standing up and brushing dust and small pieces of wood from his knees. “One small fire.”  He joined Molly on the couch, inviting her into the crook of his arm.

She nestled against him, moulding herself comfortably into his side. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she said.  “It's lovely.”

“I have to admit, it's not so bad when the company is pleasant,” he replied, kissing the top of Molly's head and curling his arm around her.

She sighed happily and rested against him.  Despite the early hour, her breathing soon evened out, her head falling slightly forward.

Sherlock tried to follow her into quietude.  His mind, however, refused to relax, mulling over the resurfaced memories of Eurus and all the questions that followed in their wake: What had happened to her? Why had his parents moved the family from their first home? Had Victor’s remains ever been found?

Few people would have the answers to these questions, and he only felt comfortable calling one of them.

Trying his best not to jostle Molly, he reached for his phone and sent a short text.

_Eurus. Need answers.  SH_

Not one minute later, his phone buzzed with a reply.

_In a meeting.  Call you at 23:00.  You will get your answers but you may regret asking. MH_

Sherlock glanced at his watch.  It was just five minutes to nine, still a long way from getting any answers from Mycroft.  Usually he would pass the time by performing mundane housekeeping in his mind palace - adding new information, deleting unnecessary tidbits - but after the events which had taken place earlier that evening he was leery of going back in.

Instead, he decided it was time to practice being patient, basking in the weight of Molly pressed into his side, lulled into peacefulness by the crackling of the fire and the chirping of the crickets outside.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final installation of this story, this chapter follows Sherlock and Molly in their last days at the cottage before they have to head back to real life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, here we are - the last chapter of the story! To those who are still with me, thanks so much for your support and for taking time to share your thoughts. It might sound hokey, but feedback really does help an author's creative juices (and self-esteem!). I've had tons of fun creating this adventure for Sherlock and Molly - there are so many ways of reinventing their relationship, each one more fun than the last.
> 
> Great big thanks to Marvel Lit Chick for her support and soundboarding - this fic wouldn't be the same without her!
> 
> And, of course, the usual disclaimer - Alas, I don't own any of the characters from Sherlock and am not profiting from this story. I'm just borrowing them for a spot of fun.

Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table, his gaze focused out the window, when Molly came downstairs the following morning. He'd watched night slowly turn to day, shadows fading with the light, the sun bringing birdsong and the scent of dewy foliage.  His eyes had seen it, but his mind had been elsewhere, caught in an endless loop of recovered memories. 

“Your side of the bed wasn't disturbed,” she said, coming to stand behind him and placing her hands on his shoulders. She squeezed, her strong fingers massaging the tense knots that had formed after sitting in a wooden chair for seven hours. “You didn't sleep last night, did you?” 

“No,” he admitted, lifting a hand to place it over one of Molly’s. She was still warm from being in bed, and he regretted not having joined her. It might have done him some good to lie with her, to hold her and let the cadence of her sleepy breaths lull him into peace. Instead he'd lapsed into old habits, isolating himself and trying to work his troubled thoughts out on his own. 

_You should know better by now_ , he chastised himself as he watched her fill the kettle and put it on the stove. “I talked to Mycroft about Eurus after you went to bed. There was a lot I needed to digest. More memories, more information.”   _More anger, more frustration._  

She pulled out a chair and sat next to him. “You could have woken me up.”  Her eyes searched his face, most likely looking for signs of upset. 

“I know.  I could have - _should_ have - but I'm fine,” he assured her. “Mycroft was able to answer all of my questions - and then some.”   

Molly worried her bottom lip between her teeth in that way Sherlock found so endearing. “Can you… Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not really, no,” he replied truthfully.  “But I probably should – speaking them out loud might help me understand the thoughts bouncing around in my head. I haven’t organised them in my mind palace yet.” He grimaced. “After what happened yesterday I’m still a bit leery of going back in there.” 

“Well, I don’t blame you if it was bad enough to give you a panic attack,” Molly agreed before standing up to make two mugs of tea.  She set one in front of Sherlock before sitting back down.  “What did Mycroft have to say, then?” 

Sherlock spent the next hour going over every detail his brother had shared, confirming his memory of her heightened intelligence (“he used the term ‘ _incandescent_ ’ to describe her genius”), her animosity towards Sherlock, and the likelihood of her being responsible for Victor’s disappearance.  Mycroft had also filled in some blanks:  the burning of Musgrave, Eurus’s placement in an institution and her eventual death years later, as well as her role in forming Sherlock’s character.  “He said she’s the reason why I’m the man I am today - every choice I’ve ever made was because of her,” he finished, staring into his empty mug. 

“He’s wrong,” Molly replied firmly.  “Maybe she helped shape the man you were five years ago, or even two years ago.  But she had nothing to do with who you are today, Sherlock, _nothing_.”  She stood up and walked over to him, wrapping him up in a hug, which he accepted gratefully. 

She allowed him to pull her onto his lap, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder.  He didn’t need to tell her he’d changed because of her, because of John and Mary and Rosie, because of their persistence in loving him each in their own way.  “Are of you going to let your parents know you’ve remembered?” she asked as she played with a loose thread on one of his shirt buttons. 

“Mycroft asked me not to.  He said it was an old wound I shouldn't be reopening.” 

“That's not right!” she replied, sitting up straight. “They have a right to know, and you have a right to ask them about it.  Imagine the guilt they’ve carried with them all these years, hiding the truth from you, keeping their only daughter a dirty secret.  It’s horrible.” 

Sherlock threw her a mischievous look. “Since when do I ever do what Mycroft tells me to?  Of course I'm going to talk to them about it.” 

“Good on you,” she replied, standing up. She stared at the stove for a moment, hands on her hips. “Are you hungry?  I’m thinking eggs and bacon would be good right about now.” 

“I thought bacon led to heart disease?” 

“Pfft.  Food’s never bad for you when you're on holidays,” she replied airily, waving her hands around and throwing him her own mischievous look. 

He rose, stretched, and walked over to where she was assembling the ingredients for breakfast.  “Do you need help with anything?” 

“No, I'm good,” she replied, lighting a burner on the stove. “I can manage this on my own if you want to go have a shower.” 

“I think I'll do just that.”  Invigorated by the thought of washing away the past day's melancholy, he kissed Molly on the cheek and headed upstairs for a quick wash and a change of clothes.

 

***

 

When the last of the breakfast dishes had been put away, Sherlock leaned back against the kitchen table, watching Molly as she folded the tea towel and hung it on the bar inside the cupboard under the sink.  “So,” he said, rolling his shirt sleeves back down and buttoning the cuffs. “Do you have any plans as to how you want to spend your day?” 

“I wouldn’t mind playing tourist; I haven't been in these parts before.”  Leaning forward, Molly craned her neck to peer out the small window.  “Something outside, if possible. It looks absolutely lovely out there.” 

Sherlock took the two steps to join her, wrapping his arms loosely around her.  “Are you up to a lot of walking?” 

“Walking shouldn't be a problem.  If I get tired, I can always find a place to sit down.”  She leaned her head against his chest, her fingers playing with his belt loops.  “Do you have any ideas?” 

“A few places come to mind, all within a short drive from here.  There’s Framlingham Castle, Lavenham Guildhall, Landguard Fort, Sutton Hoo…” 

“Oh, Sutton Hoo!” Molly pulled out of his arms, her eyes lit up with excitement. “Of course - we’re near Sutton! I’ve seen the exhibit at the British Museum many times; it would be brilliant to see the burial grounds.  Unless you’d rather go elsewhere.” 

“Not at all.  It's been a long time since I've been - I might appreciate it more through the eyes of an adult, anyway.  And if we leave early enough we’ll avoid the worst of the crowds.” 

“Mmm..” she hummed, standing on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek.  “That sounds perfect.  We can find somewhere to stop for lunch then spend a quiet afternoon back here.” 

The next few days passed in much the same way, with the couple playing tourist in the morning and spending their afternoon lazing around the cottage.  It hadn’t escaped Sherlock how the domestic pattern they’d fallen into would have left his old self writhing in sheer agony, but truth be told it suited him just fine.  He didn’t regret his newfound tolerance for routine any more than he regretted the manic level of activity from his earlier years. 

On the fourth day of their vacation, his phone rang.  He pulled back from his microscope - soil samples collected the previous day along a stretch of beach near Walberswick - and looked at the screen.  Sighing, he answered.  “Hello Mum.” 

“Oh, hello!”  She seemed surprised to get an answer.  “I just wanted to call and see how things are going, seeing as I hadn’t heard from you yet.” 

“They’re going well.”  He disregarded her obvious dig, his mind still partly on the sediment composition of his sample. 

“You’re not ignoring the poor girl, are you, Sherlock?” 

“What?”   _That_ got his full attention.  “Of course not!  I’ve been chauffeuring her all over Suffolk - we’ve been to Sutton Hoo, Framlingham, the nature reserve.  We’ve spent a fair bit of time at the cottage, but that’s been on her terms, not mine.” 

“That’s good.  How is Molly, then?” 

Now standing at the window overlooking the garden, he spied the object of their discussion.  She was resting on a sunlounger he’d pulled out of a shed for her, lying on her tummy as she read a copy of Treasure Island she’d found in Sherlock’s old room.  The jean shorts she wore hugged her curves in a way that drove the detective’s mind to places where it didn’t belong.  _Exquisite_ , he wanted to reply.  Instead, he said “She’s fine.  She’s been… pragmatic, I suppose, about the whole ordeal. Said that things happen for a reason and this one just wasn’t meant to be.”  He took a deep breath, trying to sort out the maelstrom of feelings surging suddenly within him.  “She’s such a strong woman, Mum.  It’s one of the reasons I love her.” 

“I never allowed myself to believe I’d ever say this, son, but that young woman is lucky to have you.”   

Her voice cracked, and Sherlock cringed.  “Mum, _please_.  I’ve had enough emoting this week.”  Gently, he added, “Although I do appreciate your faith in me.” 

Mrs. Holmes chuckled.  “Well, I’ll leave the ‘emoting’ at a minimum and let you go, then.  You have a lovely time and send Molly our love.” 

“I will, Mum.  I’m sure Molly sends hers to you and Dad as well.” 

“Oh!  One more thing, Sherlock.  Please remember to wash the sheets before you leave.” 

Sherlock frowned.  “What do you mean…” Then her intent struck him.  “ _Mum_!” he growled, his cheeks flushing.  “You know why we’re here.  We can’t be doing anything like that.” 

There was a silence at the other end of the line - long enough for him to wonder if his mother had hung up the phone - before she spoke.  “You really _are_ new at this, aren’t you?” she replied, amused.  “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.  Good-bye, Sherlock.” 

“Good-bye, Mum.” 

Sherlock walked over to the living room and sat in his chair, mulling his mother’s words over.  What on earth had she meant by him being “new at this”?  Had she meant relationships?  That went without saying - of course he was new at relationships.   _So she must have meant something else_ , he mused.  Her tone had implied sex - he shuddered at the situation that put his mother and sex in the same thought - but he’d gotten Molly pregnant, so she couldn’t have been talking about that. 

Could she? 

That line of thought drove him straight into a minefield he’d worked hard to avoid while they’d been at the cottage: sex (or lack thereof at the moment).  The thought alone made him feel like a selfish cad, worrying about sex while Molly healed physically and emotionally from a miscarriage.

Frustration coursed through him and he swept his arm across the small table next to him, sending newspapers and periodicals flying across the room.  His anger dissipating immediately, he looked at the mess he’d created and sighed. 

Molly walked in as he knelt on the ground gathering the scattered papers into a semblance of a neat pile. 

“What happened?” she asked, getting down to help him. 

“I…” He searched for a way to explain what had happened, but came up short, not wanting to admit he’d become agitated after indirectly speaking with his mother about sex. 

“Threw a tantrum?” she guessed, the corners of her lips pulling into a smirk. 

“Yes,” he admitted, looking back down at the stack of papers. 

“What is it, Sherlock?” she asked, picking up on his discomfort. Of course she noticed - she’d always been able to read him, even before they’d been together. 

“It’s nothing,” he assured her, punctuating his reply with what he hoped was a convincing smile.  The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel guilty because they couldn’t have sex. 

“Sherlock,” she persisted. “We’ve been through so much together.  You know you can tell me anything.” 

Sherlock stared at her, his emotions beating at him like waves against a cliff. She was right and he knew it. No more secrets, no more holding back. “I… I miss our physical intimacy.  I never knew it could be like this, needing someone, wanting someone, every minute of every day.  I have to hold myself back from hoisting you over my shoulder and dragging you to the bedroom,” he confessed with a mirthless laugh, hating the slave he’d become to his baser needs.

 “Then why don’t you?” she asked, as if it were that easy. 

“Molly, the doctor said…” 

“The doctor said no _intercourse_.  You don’t have to have intercourse to be intimate,” she told him, smiling.  She stood up and reached out to him, arm outstretched, waiting for him to place his hand in hers. 

Sherlock allowed Molly to lead him up the narrow stairs, too distracted by the nervousness and curiosity and excitement coursing through him to be distracted by the creaky third step or the photograph of Aunt Harriet that was always askew no matter how often he straightened it. 

She led him to their bedroom. Dropping his hand, she left him at the entrance of the small room and walked over to the wicker chair in the far corner, sitting down.  Although she effected an air of ease - she leaned back, her legs crossed at the ankles - her nervousness was apparent through the set of her shoulders and through her fingers, which were nervously toying with a thread on her shorts. 

“Take your shirt off,” she instructed breathlessly. 

“Molly,” he asked, not understanding where this was leading.  “What do you…” 

“ _Take_ ,” she interrupted, “your shirt off.”  Sotto voce she added “Please trust me.” 

Trusting her, _always_ , Sherlock did as she bade and began to pop the buttons on his shirt, cuffs first, then each button from top to bottom, slowly revealing himself to her.  Although he’d undressed in her presence many times - they’d practically been living together for the past few months - her unabashed gaze, coupled with the mystery of her request, left him with an elevated heartbeat and nerves on fire. _Curious_ , he thought, _how something mundane can become erotic in the right setting._  

He slid the garment off, dropping it carelessly to the side, and turned to face Molly. 

“Now your trousers,” she instructed, her voice rougher and less steady than before.  Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and her eyes half-lidded - all clear signs she was as affected as he was by the striptease. 

Her gaze followed Sherlock’s hands as they reached for the clasp at his waist.  He moved slowly, wanting to draw the moment out, but almost lost his control when the tip of her tongue peeked out, tracing her lips. Instead he exhaled slowly, the sound coming out as a strangled groan. 

He knew what her next command would be before he’d even kicked his trousers to the side, but that didn’t stop his pulse from quickening at her whispered “ _your_ _pants_ ”. 

Hands shaking, ears pounding from the sound of his heart as it threatened to beat through his chest - illogical, he well knew, but then so was the extent of his need for Molly at that very moment - Sherlock slid his underpants off, finally standing bare before her. 

As a man who prided himself on controlling every possible aspect of his life, it was oddly exhilarating to relinquish control to Molly. 

And it was in that dual moment of excitement and vulnerability as he waited for Molly’s next instruction, that he understood his mother’s comment.  Of course, now was _not_ the time to think about that.  

“Sit on the bed, leaning against the headboard.” 

Sherlock did as she bade, placing a pillow at his back for comfort.  He was thankful for the breeze gently blowing through the window - despite its warmth it helped cool him off in his flushed state.   

Quiet and steadier than it had been, Molly’s voice carried over the singing of the birds and crickets outside. “Close your eyes. I want you to wrap your fingers around your cock and slide your hand up, to pleasure yourself.  You’re already so hard,” she added breathlessly. 

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, his gaze shooting up to meet Molly’s. He’d never been shy about nudity, but this was something altogether more. More private, more personal, more intimate.  His eagerness to please her, to _play the game_ , far outweighed any sense of modesty, however, so he complied with her request, closing his eyes and taking himself in hand. 

“Tell me what you think of when you touch yourself.  I want to know what goes through your mind.” 

“ _You_ ,” Sherlock replied immediately.  Despite the privacy of his innermost thoughts, he felt them tumble easily from his tongue, like liberated confessions. “I think of your ass, heart shaped and beautiful, as I pound my cock into you from behind.”  His hand slid up and down his slick shaft as he imagined the moist warmth of Molly’s cunt. “I think of the noises you make when I fuck you, when you beg for more…” His mind played scenes from their encounters, further fuelling his desire. 

Sherlock continued to talk - a lust-filled stream of consciousness narrative as close to babbling as he’d ever come - when he felt the bed dip at his side. 

He went still when he felt Molly’s breath, warm and tremulous, fanning against his skin.  “Don't stop…” she whispered before placing a row of kisses along the taut column of his neck, her hand alighting on his inner thigh for balance. 

There really was only so much a man could take, honestly. His already fraying control snapping, Sherlock opened his eyes and found the same unbridled lust reflected in Molly’s gaze. 

She opened her mouth to speak but whatever words had been at the tip of her tongue turned into a squeal when he flipped her onto the bed, covering her with his body.  He crushed his mouth to hers in a fumbling, messy, desperate embrace which she returned with equal fervour.  He wanted, _needed_ , Molly so much his skin thrummed with it, his nerves on edge like when he needed a fix. 

He pulled back, shifting his weight to his forearm and his knees, allowing himself enough room to let his lips wander down her jaw and throat.  Molly squirmed beneath him, pressing her body against his, encouraging him through her gentle moans and breathless pleas. 

His free hand wandered down her side, tracing the swell of her breast, the dip at her waist, the curve of her hip, a landscape it was intimately familiar with.  When his fingers reached the apex of her thighs and encountered the damp proof of her desire, he paused in his ministrations, his restraint wavering. 

“Molly, _darling_ ,” he said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded when he felt like he could implode at any moment. “If you became this excited every time I undressed, we’d never leave the flat.” 

She laughed, staring up at him with eyes that twinkled with a mixture of arousal and mischief. Reaching down, she wrapped her hand firmly around his cock and added “You mean if we _both_ became this excited we’d never leave the flat.”   

“Keen observation, Hooper.”  He’d tried to go for casual, but the catch in Sherlock’s voice betrayed the cliff he teetered on.  A small John stepped out of the shadows at the back of his mind.  “You’re going to want to think unsexy thoughts, mate, if you don't want to disappoint Molly.”   

Imaginary!John had a point, as usual. Leaning forward, Sherlock rested his forehead in the crook of Molly’s shoulder, his hips thrusting shallowly.   _Men wearing flip flops. Sandals with socks. Mycroft eating a coconut cream pie without using utensils. Mum & Dad having sex. In this very bed_.   

Although not the bucket of ice water he’d expected (and he really did need to revisit _that_ later), the thought of his parents doing what he and Molly were doing greatly reduced the urgency of his desire.  Once again able to move without the threat of a sudden finish, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers in a slow, deep kiss. 

His hand kept the same unhurried pace, two fingers sliding on each side of Molly’s clit before slipping inside her and then back out, over and over again. 

Beneath him, Molly writhed, pressing herself up against his hand. Sherlock committed each sound she made to memory, every breathless plea, every whimper, every call out to a god in which she didn’t believe.  He certainly hadn’t been lying when he’d told Molly what it was that turned him on the most.  The room he’d meticulously created for her in his mind palace contained a gramophone on which he could play records of sounds he’d memorized, forever having them at his recollection whenever he wanted - or needed - to hear her. 

_I must add that one_ , he thought to himself as his ears picked up the wet, sticky sound of his cock thrusting in Molly’s small hand. 

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” she whimpered, her breath catching on the intake, her hand’s rhythm faltering. She gasped and went still, her body arcing as if electrocuted, as her release shot through her.  Sherlock followed her over the precipice, turned on as ever by the fact that it was at _his_ hand that Molly climaxed, and it was _his_ name she called out in the throes of passion. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he exhaled roughly, resting against her while he tried to catch his breath. He could feel the tattoo of her heartbeat against his chest, its rapid _thump-thump-thump_ matching the tempo of his own pulse.  Eventually he felt himself regain some of his strength, and he pushed back up onto his forearm. 

Looking down at Molly, her cheeks flushed, her lips pulled wide in a sated smile, her warm chocolate eyes staring up him with more love than he would ever deserve, Sherlock Holmes had an epiphany.  He would marry Molly Hooper. He would get down on one knee, propose in the most nauseatingly romantic way possible, and then take part in a ridiculous, archaic ceremony - all to officially let the world know he would love her until he took his last breath. 

“What is it?” she asked, searching his face for a clue to his sudden introspection. 

“I love you,” he replied, sharing only the partial truth of where his thoughts had wandered. 

“I love you too,” she sighed contentedly before scrunching her nose up. “But as much as I love you, I really need to wash up.” 

Sherlock looked down and noticed the mess spread across Molly’s hand and hip, as well as the bedsheets.  “Ah,” he said, rising off her and standing up.  “Tissues are in the bathroom. Shall I start a bath while I’m fetching them?” 

“Mmm…” she purred, “that would be lovely.”  She looked over at him mischievously.  “Join me?”

 

***

 

“Let’s go over the list one more time before we go,” Molly said, sitting down at the table. 

Sherlock groaned.  “We’ve been over the list _three times_.  We haven’t forgotten anything.” 

“Has the rubbish bin in the bathroom been emptied?” she asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow at him. 

_Bugger_.  “No. I’ll go fetch the bag and add it to the rest.”  Turning away, the detective walked back through the house, both relieved and disappointed their week away had drawn to an end.  This had been the longest he’d gone without a case (barring illness, injury, drug addiction or the ensuing withdrawal, of course) and his brain was itching to once again be used for more than navigation or figuring out how to fold lawn furniture.  On the flip side, his week alone with Molly had been surprisingly relaxing, and he’d amassed many wonderful memories to process over the drive home while Molly dozed (despite her assurances to the contrary the pathologist had, without fail, fallen sound asleep on any car ride longer than a half hour). 

He took yet another final check upstairs - making sure windows were closed and secured, the beds were made, clean linens were folded and stored away, no stray knickers left under the bed (or on top of the armoire, or hanging over the curtain rod…).  His inspection continued - straightening the photo of Aunt Harriet on his way down the stairs, making sure living room chairs and tables were returned to their original places - until he returned to the kitchen and deposited the small rubbish bag into the bigger one. “ _There_ ,” he said.  “You can go upstairs and confirm for yourself, but all windows are locked, everything is where it should be and nothing is where it shouldn’t be.  Are we _finally_ ready to leave?” 

“Did you lock the shed?” she asked, pencil poised on her hand-written list. 

“Yes.” 

“Lawn chairs put away?” 

“Yes.  I even Googled how to fold the damn things first.” 

“Then we’re ready!”  She stood up and looked around her, sighing. “I’m going to miss it here, but I think I’m ready to get back to my normal life.  I feel like I haven’t been to work in months, and I miss Rosie.” 

“I’m sure she’ll be overjoyed to see her Auntie ‘Mah’,” he teased, following her outside.  He locked the door and walked the garbage out to the rubbish containers at the side of the house, pausing to pick a few flowers for Molly from his mother’s garden on the way back.  He handed her the bouquet, leaning in for a quick kiss. 

“They’re beautiful,” she sighed, inhaling deeply. 

“They don’t stand a chance against your beauty,” he replied.

Molly blushed, laughing. “I would never have taken you for a charmer, Sherlock Holmes.” 

“I would have never taken myself as a man to fall head over heels in love, Molly Hooper, but you’ve changed that.”  He held her car door open.  “Now hop in so you can catch up on your sleep.” 

“I do _not_ sleep in cars.  I just close my eyes and relax…”  Chuckling, Sherlock shut the door and walked around to his side, taking one last look at the small cottage.  So many things had happened this past week - he’d learned to relax, he and Molly had discovered new ways of pushing the boundaries of their physical relationship, and he’d regained his memories of Eurus (a conversation to be had with his parents in the flesh, with Molly there for support).   

Was he changing because his life was changing, or was it the other way around?   _Maybe a bit of both_ , he decided as he sat in his seat and looked over at Molly.   

Either way, he was happy with the direction it was taking.  And after a lifetime of being angry at the world, he decided that being happy was a good thing.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!! If you can, please share your thoughts in a comment - it only takes a moment!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Well, here you go - what do you think? Don't forget to feed the author by sharing your thoughts and leaving a review!


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